


green

by novoaa1



Series: exodus [1]
Category: DCU, Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019), Harley Quinn (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Arkham Asylum, Bisexual Harleen Quinzel, Bisexual Selina Kyle, Bombing, Bombs, But to be fair, Cannibalism, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotionally Constipated Selina Kyle, F/F, Girls with Guns, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, Gotham General Hospital, Harleen Quinzel Backstory, Harleen Quinzel Needs a Hug, I Apologize For This, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knives, Light Dom/sub, Minor Veronica Sinclair (DCU), Morning Cuddles, POV Harleen Quinzel, POV Pamela Isley, POV Selina Kyle, POV Veronica Sinclair, Pamela Isley Loves Harleen Quinzel, Parent Harleen Quinzel, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Pole Dancing, Praise Kink, Pregnancy, Protective Pamela Isley, Protective Selina Kyle, Psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel, Sad Harleen Quinzel, Self-Esteem Issues, Selina Kyle is Catwoman, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Swords, Verbal Abuse, a dark take on harley, but it's jarring to be sure, but not really, gentlewoman pamela isley, harleen quinzel has self-esteem issues, harley's already dark to begin with, it's a plan eating humanss, it's not nice, jewish harleen quinzel, kinda based off that one scene in suicide squad, non-consensual degradation, pam being big on consent which is sexie, pamela isley backstory, pamela isley needs a hug, so that's slightly different, this is like dark for sure, this is really not a joker friendly story so if you're looking for that... don't click here i guess?, with the joker and harley in like the nightclub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 56,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “Doctor Pamela Isley,” he utters out with painfully ironic emphasis before turning slightly to appraise Harley with a lecherous grin, “is a very powerful woman.”He waits for Harley to give a nod of acknowledgement before turning back to Green Doctor Lady.“Harley likes powerful women,” he continues on, eyes still boring across the circular black tabletop (littered with unfinished drinks) and into Green Doctor Lady’s even as he addresses Harley. “Don’t you, doll face?”Or: Harley's resigned herself to life under Joker's thumb—that is, until one night, someone new shows up. (Plus, she's, like, really,reallygorgeous, just in case that's of interest to anyone besides Harley.)
Relationships: Eiko Hasigawa/Selina Kyle, Floyd Lawton & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley & Frank the Plant (DCU), Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle & Floyd Lawton, Selina Kyle & Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle/Veronica Sinclair
Series: exodus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689436
Comments: 343
Kudos: 1021





	1. death wish

**Author's Note:**

> i should be doign homework. or sleeping, probably

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [JOKER](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joker_\(character\)) was written with mostly [jared leto's portrayal](https://dcextendeduniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Joker) of him from _suicide squad_ in mind, but also a fair amount of [heath ledger's portrayal](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Joker_\(Nolanverse\)) of him from _the dark knight_ as well

**HARLEY**

It’s a night like any other, the first time Harley meets her: a drop-dead beautiful woman with killer curves, pale-green skin, and gorgeous green eyes to match. She almost _glows_ beneath the technicolored lights. 

She’s dressed all fancy, too: sheer white blouse and black slacks (—quintessential business attire, in other words). She’s got wild fiery-red hair, wavy locks pulled smartly up into a high ponytail at the crown of her skull. Harley can’t help but wonder if it’s even half as soft as it looks. 

Her presence is… powerful, to say the very least. 

It’s compelling and weighty and _cogent_ (among other things), setting Harley’s very insides alight with intrigue. (It scares and excites her in equal parts.)

Harley’s working the pole like it’s second nature (which, at this point, she reckons it kinda is) up on the stage when the enigmatic ( _gorgeous_ ) lady enters. 

She's strong and silent and powerful as she strides across the floor, and maybe it's par for the freakin’ course, but Harley'll be the first to admit that she paints a pretty salacious picture in comparison. She might as well be naked, for all the modesty of her current dress: tiny black lace push-up-bra-and-thong lingerie set, an outrageous pair of clear plastic platform heels, thick black leather collar (embellished with a silver ring at the front) secured snugly around her throat. 

Still, Harley doesn’t dare stop her dance. She doesn’t even blink to acknowledge the rapidly changing dynamic around her, the way it seems to douse the entire nightclub in a razor-sharp tension she can practically _taste_ amidst the sour tang that lingers from Mistah J’s latest client on her tongue.

Because maybe she’s every bit as worthless as Mistah J says, but she ain’t fuckin’ _stupid_ , and she thinks that that ought to count for something. She knows what happens if she stops, if she doesn’t keep showing off for Mistah J and his powerful friends just like he tells her to… no, she can’t afford that. What’s more: she knows it, too. 

Still, Harley tracks the pretty lady across the room as she maneuvers her body through every turn and flourish (each of which she knows like the back of her hand), because, really—she’s somethin’ else. 

For starters, she doesn’t have any security doggin' her around (at least, not that Harley can see), which means one of two things (especially considering whose nightclub she’s strutting around like she owns it): she’s either really crazy powerful or just plain fucking stupid, because if she really found the nerve to show up here alone without backup, she’s as good as dead, and Harley knows it. 

(She thinks the pretty green lady must know it, too.)

Harley wonders if Mistah J will have her service the Green Lady, too (—granted she walks out of this alive, that is). It’s a preoccupying train of thought (and a welcome one at that) while she dances, her hips (decorated with no small measure of ink) grinding perfectly in sync with the bass-heavy beat that plays over the speakers. Tiny droplets of hard-earned sweat plaster bleached-blonde flyaways to the nape of her neck; her fake lashes seem to weigh heavier upon powder-blackened eyelids with every passing moment. 

She holds her next perfectly-choreographed twirl for a split-second too long in order to catch a glimpse of what’s happening on the floor. She sees a handful of drunken patrons, a blur of multicolored light, and Green Lady sliding deftly into Mistah J’s usual booth right across from the man himself like it’s nothing. 

No, she’s all measured poise as she sits there, effortless dominance (the kind that threatens to rival even that of Mistah J’s) radiating off of her in waves. 

It seems as if only a handful of moments pass before—

“Harley!” Mistah J’s nasally syntax roars loudly over the thumping bass. It penetrates her to the very core like a sharpened blade doused in poison. 

She’s being summoned. Wonderful. 

She lowers herself down carefully from the pole and begins to descend the stout staircase leading down from the stage. Nausea churns steadily in her gut, but she’s careful not to let it show. 

She pastes a near-hysterical smile across her powdered cheeks (the one that’s just a touch shy of crazy, just how Mistah J likes) as she draws near, comes to stand prettily right beside her Puddin' on his side of the blood-red upholstery. 

She has to force herself not to shrivel as numerous pairs of eyes turn to appraise her, ogling her without a hint of shame. 

Green Lady’s looking at her, too, she notes out of her periphery, green eyes glinting almost dangerously beneath the technicolored lights like she knows something the rest of them don’t. Not only that, but they never stray beneath Harley’s face. 

It’s almost impressive, Harley thinks. Even the straightest of gals couldn’t quite restrain themselves from taking a look, even if spurred on more by curiosity than anything else. 

This lady—whoever she is—is different, Harley can tell. 

She doesn’t quite know if that makes things better or worse.

(Though, knowing her rotten luck? Probably the latter.)

“Harley, darling, meet Ms. Pamela Isley,” Puddin’ announces without turning to address her. His voice is all slow and languorous, feigning indifference, but Harley can detect the steely warning underlying his words. (As if Harley _really_ needs another reminder of what exactly happens should she decide _not_ to play along here).

“ _Doctor_ ,” the Green Lady corrects smoothly, reddish lips curled into an easy smirk, her voice low and husky and positively oozing sex appeal. 

_Cool under pressure. Cheeky, too_ , Harley notes. _Good for her_. 

Still, she's playing a dangerous game here (whether she knows it or not), and Harley can’t help thinking to herself: _Gosh, does this lady have a death wish or somethin’?_

“Forgive me,” Mistah J defers, tone wrought with insincerity. 

Her perfect posture doesn’t shift, something like reserved bemusement playing out across her angular features. 

“ _Doctor Pamela Isley_ ,” he utters out with a painfully ironic emphasis before turning to appraise Harley with a lecherous grin, “is a very powerful woman.” 

He waits for Harley to give a nod of acknowledgement before turning back to Green Doctor Lady. 

“Harley likes powerful women,” he continues on, eyes still boring across the circular black tabletop (littered with various unfinished alcoholic drinks) and into Green Doctor Lady’s even as he addresses Harley. “Don’t you, doll face?”

“I do, Puddin’,” she readily agrees, injecting that sultry note into her honeyed tone for maximum effect. 

Meanwhile, her mind races to comprehend where he’s likely going with this—which is Harley getting on her knees for a person of Mistah J’s choosing (Pretty Green Doctor Lady, in this case) in the backroom. 

She’ll be all sugar and sweetness, then—the kind of girl that blushes at being told to kneel but sucks cock like a pornstar. She’ll get undressed and degrade herself for their benefit, demonstrate all the reasons they should play nice with Mistah J. Most of the time, it works like a charm. The other times… well. She doesn’t much like thinking about the other times. 

But anyways. 

To be clear, it’s not the woman factor that throws her off. No, Harley’s known of her own bisexuality for a little while now, and her Puddin’s been making her submit to powerful ladies in the backroom for a lot longer regardless. 

No, it’s that this lady, this “Doctor Pamela Isley”… she seems _different_ , to Harley. 

(Or maybe Harley’s just really startin’ to lose the plot this time, for real.

Yeah, that’s probably what’s happening.)

Still, Doctor Lady just curls her painted lips into a cocky grin, meets Harley’s gaze with her own. “Is that so?”

Harley doesn’t have to feign the heated blush that tinges her pale cheeks, then, nor the instinctual way her breath catches audibly in her throat. “Y-Yes, Ma’am.”

“‘Ma’am,’” she repeats languidly, as if trying it out on her tongue. “Hm. I like the sound of that.”

— — 

They find themselves in the backroom approximately five minutes later at Mistah J’s behest. Harley leads the way through a dimly-lit hallway in the back (its interior ripe with the musky scent of stale booze and cheap perfume), then right into a private room. Her hands tremble as she shuts the door behind them, secures the deadbolt. 

By the time Harley turns back around, the redheaded woman has made herself comfortable sitting atop the lone chair in the center of the room. Her expression is perfectly bland—completely unreadable. There’s a slight furrow between her perfectly-shaped brows that indicates annoyance, or perhaps an intense thoughtfulness… or maybe nothing at all. 

It’s daunting, to say the very least. 

Still, the considerable amount of experience Harley has in this particular vein of transaction is more than enough to jolt her into action. She stalks forward with a hell of a lot more confidence than she feels, makes to kneel before her atop the stained hardwood floors. It's—

“No,” Pretty Green Doctor Lady speaks suddenly, successfully halting Harley’s movements. 

Harley blinks owlishly up at her through thick lashes. 

“On my lap,” Green Lady tells her simply. Her glossy reddish lips move hypnotically to form the words (such that Harley initially struggles to grasp their meaning). “Straddle me."

Harley does. She settles into position as smoothly as she can atop Pretty Green Doctor Lady’s thighs, warm and strong beneath her own. Her arms loop their way reflexively around her shoulders, ghostly-pale hands clasped behind the nape of her neck. 

Pretty Green Doctor Lady smells nice, she notes— _real_ nice, like berries and pinewood and evergreen forests. 

“You’re real pretty, Ma’am,” Harley murmurs out by way of introduction. She fights the urge to squirm as warm palms settle above either hip. 

“And you are quite polite, darling girl,” Green Lady remarks smoothly, the thinly-veiled compliment rolling off her tongue like it’s nothing. Harley shivers as it washes over her, has to clench her thighs in order to refrain from grinding down on her lap in response. _Fuck_.

(Whatever, alright? A little praise kink never hurt anybody.)

“You like that, don’t you? When I tell you how polite you are, how good and well-spoken,” Green Lady continues on, voice rich with molten sovereignty. 

Harley doesn’t have a _chance_ at stopping herself this time. Her hips buck quite suddenly of their own accord, her panty-covered clit dragging against Green Lady’s thigh. It tears a whimper from her bruised lips before she can think to stifle it. 

“Tell me, Harley, do you service who the Joker tells you to service because it excites you, or because he wills it?”

“I-I—"

“Do _not_ lie to me,” Green Lady growls out. Her grip tightens around Harley's waist until she's forced to still. 

Harley bites her lower lip (already swollen from the night’s earlier trysts with various men of Mistah J’s choosing), silently willing her brain to catch up. Green Lady’s sure-handed grip borders on harsh enough to bruise (just how Harley likes it), and a tense sort of quiet stretches on between them. 

In the end, she settles for something of a deflection (though she’s not sure it’s all that good): “Why d’ya ask when I get the feeling you already know the answer?” Green Lady brow twitches at that, and Harley scrambles to tack a hasty “Ma’am?” onto the tail end of her query.

“Because I want to hear it from you.”

Harley frowns. Things are beginning to spiral. She makes a completely futile attempt at squirming out of Green Lady’s iron grip, batting her lashes provocatively up at her and pushing her lips out to form a pout. “Haven’t we done enough talkin’ already? Aren’t’ya gonna touch me?”

(It’s another attempt at deflecting, this one even more hopelessly blatant than the last. Still, Harley reckons it’s worth a try, even if one that’s historically succeeded only on chronically dimwitted men and _not_ on gorgeous dominant women with doctorate degrees.)

“Answer my question, and I’ll consider it,” Green Lady quips easily back. She punctuates her repartee with an offhanded flex of her thigh such that the muscle presses _just right_ up into Harley’s panty-covered sex. And still, the ridiculously strong hands bruising her hips don’t move, keeping her firmly in place despite her somewhat half-hearted attempts to break free.

(No freakin’ _fair_.)

“J-Jesus,” Harley pants, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and exhilaration and _want_. “You really do have a death wish, huh?”

Green Lady cocks a single impeccably-manicured brow, eyes boring intently into Harley’s. Apparently, she's quite undeterred by Harley’s last-ditch attempt at a warning. “Is that a ‘yes,’ you’ll cooperate, or a 'no,’ you won’t?”

Harley gulps audibly, her breathless pants coming heavy, her flushed skin tingling with a desperation unlike anything else she’s ever felt. “Y-Yes, I’ll cooperate… Ma’am.”

“Good girl.”

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would it surprise you to know that i used to be a mormon💀


	2. elijah nadir quinzel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to tell you a secret now, darling—one I wholeheartedly expect that you keep.”
> 
> Harley finds herself nodding her head immediately in acquiesce before she can think better of it, hips twitching reflexively beneath Green Lady’s unyielding grip in a bid for more attention, more friction, more _anything_ so long as it’s the dazzling lady with pretty green skin who gives it to her. “I-I will, Ma’am. _Promise_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm back? maybe? and thinking of making this into a series cause i really do wanna get into my own version of harley and ivy's story if i can find the time and inspiration
> 
> but still definitely let me know hwat you think cause i absolutely do take that into account
> 
> hope you like?

**HARLEY**

“I get friendly with whoever my Puddin’ says, _when_ ever he says,” Harley admits. It comes off sounding a hell of a lot less matter-of-factly than she’d like. 

Green Lady’s grip shifts. One arm curls securely around Harley's bare waist, pulling her closer even as the other wanders. Knuckles graze the too-pale flesh just beneath her sternum, a tickling sensation straying lower and lower… Harley inhales sharply when it passes her navel, thin fingers beginning to trace idle feather-light patterns just above the waistband of her thong. 

All the while, Green Lady's quirking a single immaculately-groomed brow up at Harley, bemusement splayed clearly across her regal features. 

She looks almost… expectant, even, which—

_Shit_. 

“Ma’am,” Harley hastily adds on, a heated blush flooding her powdered cheeks when Green Lady’s lips curl into a lazy (but approving) smirk. 

“I like it when you call me that,” she muses out then all casual-like as if she’s discussing the weather (which, _obviously_ she ain’t). 

“Now, answer me this— _why_ do you obey him?” she questions then, her gaze turning expectant, the beguilement fading from her features to instead favor a potent sort of fervor that cuts Harley to her very core—and still, that idle touch persists. "Certainly not out of respect, or some misguided sense of loyalty. No, it simply _must_ be something else.”

Harley lets out a breath of air through her nostrils in a show of what she prays is perceived as amusement, like it’s funny. (It ain't.) 

“Maybe I’m just a rich man’s _whore_ ,” she manages to bite out with a helluva lot more sugary sweetness than she feels (though the last word especially feels like a fuckin’ _dagger_ between her ribs). A perverse chuckle rises in her chest that she only barely stifles last-minute at the sheer irony of it all, the utter density of this unadulterated _lie_ that burns where it once graced her tongue. 

The effect is immediate. Green Lady’s delicate fingers still against Harley’s skin, her elegant features hardening into something that would appear to Harley a helluva lot like righteous consternation if she didn’t know any better. 

(Much of the time—but especially now—she’s not quite convinced that she does.)

“Do _not_ degrade yourself,” she orders. Her voice is a low growl, the aggressive “I’m-not-fucking-around-anymore” kind that has Harley subconsciously wiggling her hips _desperately_ against Green Lady’s iron grip (even despite the apparent trouble she knows damn well she’s just landed herself in) in a bid for more… more pressure against her aching clit, more friction, more _anything_ , really. (She doesn’t get it… obviously.) “Not unless I tell you to.”

Well. Now isn’t _that_ a stimulating thought. “I-I’m sorry, Ma’am. _Real_ sorry. I… It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Green Lady acquiesces. Her grip loosens marginally around Harley’s waist, though it’s still easily tight enough to render her more or less trapped for the moment. 

She wills her heart to stop pounding in her chest as the gentle pad of Green Lady's finger is traded for the telltale bluntness of a perfectly manicured nail gliding dangerously at the skin beneath her navel, almost (though not quite) firmly enough to leave a mark. (But God, how Harley wishes it would.) 

“Now, why don’t we try this again, hm? What does the Joker have on you, Harley? What are you doing this for?”

“It ain’t ‘what,’” Harley starts out, shaky and uncertain. That characteristic femme fatale facade of just moments earlier is rapidly deteriorating, the coyness she fancies armor falling to the ground at her feet. In its absence, her skin feels raw—the kind of raw that comes from scrubbing furiously at the same patch of slippery skin beneath the shower, tearing through layers of flesh in a desperate bid to feel _clean_ once more. “It’s ‘who’ … _Ma’am_.”

Green Lady quirks an immaculately shaped brow at that, like Harley’s only marginally piqued her interest (though the renewed glimmer reflected back up at Harley in eyes of startling green betrays her intrigue). “Do tell.”

“I… " Harley trails off uncertainly, struggling to find the words. Her brain is a cluttered mess on good days, but it’s a fucking nightmare right now. Her thoughts hurtle at breakneck speed beyond here, beyond Green Lady and the night club and even Mistah J, because there’s always been something more important than all of that—some _one_ more important. 

When she finally speaks, it’s like a flood, a rush of riverwater through a breaking dam—a force of fuckin’ _nature_ : “I have a kid, okay?” she utters the words in a hurry, like a they’re dangerous, like they’re a ticking time bomb—because she knows that nothing will ever be the same afterwards. _Nothing_. “I have a _kid_.”

— — 

It went like this, the story of Harley and Mistah J (and the little daredevil that started growing inside her for nine long months somewhere along the way): 

Dr. Harleen Quinzel got a case back in Gotham, her bosses tellin’ her to report to Arkham Asylum first thing in the morning after the weekend was over. She’d dealt with patients at Arkham before—Helzinger, Minerva, Nygma, Burr (better known by the rather quaint moniker of Kobra)… by all accounts, the assignment seemed pretty straightforward, even if the details a bit murky.

Well, maybe “a bit murky” was undersellin’ it somewhat. 

The guy’s file was thin— _real_ thin, as in, like, three freakin’ sheets of paper, none of which provided even the most rudimentary of denizen information… birth dates and social security numbers and such. 

The first was a police report from the GCPD for the charming indictment of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. The poorly written-up complaint had been submitted by one Det. Roman Cavallo and co-signed by his partner Det. Marcus Wise (not even to mention, the corrupt officer’s chicken-scratch handwriting was absolutely _atrocious_ ). 

The second: a decidedly more official-looking (but just as incomplete) court order from the dockets of Judge Bam Bam herself sentencing the defendant in question to life without parole in Arkham Asylum for the brutal slayings of 13 innocents, as well as hundreds of yet unproven allegations of murder. 

Last of all, the third was a sloppily filled-out copy of the routine paperwork completed upon a patient’s arrival at Arkham, a digital facsimile of which was waiting for Dr. Quinzel in her inbox, this one complete with the signatures of Judge Bam Bam and Police Commissioner Jim Gordon approving the patient’s transfer. 

None included a date of birth, last name, social security number, home address, place of work, race, nor a record of any relatives and/or associates (living or otherwise). The police report for aggravated assault categorized him as a John Doe, with little else save for a vague description of the man’s appearance included within the formal indictment; the court order referred to him simply as “the Defendant, who is widely known under the appellation of 'the Joker.’” In the case of Arkham’s intake form, the line whereupon which the patient’s name would typically be scrawled was left blank entirely, the patient signature a messily-doodled “J” followed by a cartoon-ish depiction of a court jester with X-es for eyes and a chilling grin stretched from ear-to-ear. 

Dr. Harleen didn’t typically do cases at Arkham no more, but this guy… well. This guy was different—he was a freakin’ _ghost_ , for starters, and that was really just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. 

So, by the time Monday morning rolled around following a quiet weekend spent shut away in her cozy apartment poring over patient files (old and new) along with her new enigmatic subject’s most recent psych evals, Dr. Harleen Quinzel went to work. 

And, well… most everyone knows exactly how that went. 

There was just… something about him. Harley knew it then, and she damn well knows it now; something about his insanity, the way it seemed to fill every room he was in with a coercive presence, the kind that strained against the restrictive walls and curled around the base of Harley’s spine and pushed its way down her throat like that one time she took a hit off a friend’s weed pipe in university and the burning smoke expanded inside her virginal lungs and made her hack and cough so freakin’ hard she was sure it would kill her. 

Though, it was different that time with the Joker—it didn’t feel nearly as bad. There was no burning sensation, either—just an exhilarating, floaty feeling blooming steadily in the back of her skull, the kind that made her wanna smile and giggle and _laugh_ like everything was funny, even the stuff that very clearly wasn't. 

That time spent drowning in one man’s immeasurable delirium, she felt the high her friend was tryin’ to show her that night (… except she still thinks it was a lot more cogent with Mistah J than anything Jordanna Spence was tryin’ to chase with that $10 drugstore pipe). 

She got to understandin’ why people abuse painkillers and snort lines of cocaine and shoot themselves up with fentanyl-laced heroin like they aren’t afraid to die, ‘cause for a little while there, with matching chemically-bleached-white skin (evidence of her inexhaustible loyalty unto him) at the side of her Puddin’, breaking the rules and terrorizing Gotham and overall stirrin’ up more than enough trouble to give ole Batsy a nagging headache every week like clockwork… she really _wasn’t_ afraid to die. Not like everyone else. Not like she used to be. 

She didn’t even realize anything was goin’ on until a good six or seven weeks into the pregnancy, didn’t even notice the little fucker sprouting in her tummy, siphoning her food and manic energy like a bloodsucking leech (—though, no matter how many mean names she called it in her head, or how many times she cursed her Puddin’s name for havin’ the _nerve_ to knock her up like that, she didn’t have the heart to get rid of it). 

And it ain’t like she was being stupid—well, maybe a little. But it’s not like it was completely unreasonable of her to think that the chemicals did a number on her reproductive organs (‘cause it certainly fucked with everything else), therefore making her exempt from worrying about a potential pregnancy whenever she and Mistah J got their freak on. 

The docs at Arkham called it a miracle, but it didn’t feel anything close to a miracle when Mistah J dropped her like a sack of hot potatoes the second he found out about the baby. It didn’t feel heaven-sent when the morning sickness got bad and she got mega-bloated like a beached whale and she’d hysterically cry herself to sleep every single night ‘cause she knew damn well she couldn’t give the kid the kinda life they deserved, not with Mistah J and _certainly_ not alone like she was. 

All she knew then was that things were different. _She_ was different, ‘cause she wasn’t alone any longer, and that seemed to make the prospect of dying a hell of a lot more terrifying day by day than it’d ever been to begin with.

Elijah (Eli for short) Nadir Quinzel was born on a Tuesday in the wee hours of the morning after giving Harley 8 hours of absolute _hell_ in labor up at Gotham City General under the watchful eye of some lady who called herself Dr. Faye Somers. Harley don’t remember all that much from that day, but she does remember being ~~kind of~~ a bitch to Dr. Faye in the delivery room, kicking and screaming and cussing the pretty brown-eyed woman out every time she told Harley to “Give us one final push, okay?” as if she hadn’t been saying the same goddamned thing for the last three. 

And then he came, the little fucker kickin’ and screamin' and cryin’ in the nurses’ arms, covered in disgusting bloodied pregnancy juice and scrunching his tiny little nose in distress while he carried on wailing and jerking his little mini fists around as if he had any right to be throwin’ a fit while Harley was _literally_ gettin’ her lady parts rearranged and sewn back up on the table just moments after he'd ripped her open.

And when his crying (finally) died down a little and the nurses cleaned off his little chubby body and Harley got to hold him in her arms for the very first time?

Well. 

It was one of the most tragically poignant things Harley’s ever experienced in her whole life. 

She tells the Green Lady that, too. 

She doesn’t tell her all of it, of course, but she tells her enough—enough to make her _understand_. 

She doesn’t tell her about the telltale glimmer of madness she’s terrified she’ll start to see in Eli’s round hazel-green eyes (a sure sign that he really is his daddy’s son). She doesn’t tell her about that time she lost him at the fair for the seven longest minutes of her whole entire life and she fucking _screamed_ to the heavens in the middle of that crowded-ass fair like her world was ending because in that moment, it really did feel as though it might’ve been. She doesn’t tell her about every sleepless night her body racked itself with shuddering sobs that she stifled into the dirtied mattress underneath so as not wake Eli beside her, grief and loneliness and _agony_ stealing the very breath from her lungs until she thought the pain of her broken heart might kill her. 

It ain’t like that’s unusual, though. Harley’s never told anybody about those things before, and most days she’s pretty darn sure she never will. 

Still, Harley tells her what she can—what _matters_. And, the whole time, Green Lady just _listens_ —she keeps eye contact and slowly nods her head and just freakin’ _listens_ as if she really gives a damn about what Harley’s got to say.

And, when Harley’s done, when she’s asking her if she understands now (and tacking a “Ma’am” onto the end of it because, fine, maybe she kinda likes addressing someone who she’s beginning to trust might actually treat her like a person as her superior), Green Lady smiles at her. (And not the crazy kind, like Mistah J or Harley when she’s tryin’ to avoid another beating.) She fucking _smiles_. 

“You’re a very impressive girl, Harley,” Green Lady muses lowly, her words molten with an evocative sincerity that has a heated blush rising to Harley’s powdered cheeks. 

“Y-You think so? Ma’am?” Harley manages to stammer out (Harley never _stammers_ ). The fiery blush in her cheeks is hot beneath her skin, and the persistent ache between her thighs isn’t faring any better. 

“I know so,” she replies smoothly, a thoughtful look in her eye. “I’m going to tell you a secret now, darling—one I wholeheartedly expect that you keep.”

Harley finds herself nodding her head immediately in acquiesce before she can think better of it, hips twitching reflexively beneath Green Lady’s unyielding grip in a bid for more attention, more friction, more _anything_ so long as it’s the dazzling lady with pretty green skin who gives it to her. “I-I will, Ma’am. _Promise_.”

“Good,” Green Lady permits, before leaning gradually in until they’re _close_ , close enough that Harley’s hot pants mingle with her cool patterned breathing. 

The neon blues of the dingy backroom fades into irrelevance around them until all Harley knows is impossibly green eyes darkened with lust and fiery-red hair gathered back into that high ponytail atop her head and the mossy pollen-heavy scent of her filling Harley’s nostrils. It intoxicates her— _she_ intoxicates her like drugs and alcohol and even Mistah J’s pungent breed of lunacy never could. 

And then she's whispering her truth all quiet-like against Harley’s lips, so quiet her words are nearly lost beneath the faraway bass-heavy thumping of some trashy beat blaring from the foyer. “I’m going to kill the Joker. And you're going to help me.”

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harley feels>>>>>>>


	3. one night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just don’t _get_ it,” she murmurs out quietly after a protracted moment or two of silence, scarcely audible over the thumping bass of trashy club music filtering tacitly through the drywall from the next room. 
> 
> Green Lady tilts her head a little more to the left, as if Harley’s just raised a decidedly thought-provoking query. “Get what?”
> 
> “Why you’d wanna go up against Mistah J. He’s… well, he’s _Mistah J_.”
> 
> “You’re afraid of him,” Green Lady says. (It’s not a question.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? back with more so soon? yea i dont quite believe it either
> 
> honestly i got so many nice comments on the last chapter and that inspired me to write another chapter so fr if you dropped a nice comment on one of the last two bits, pls consider this a marriage proposal because i👏🏼love👏🏼you👏🏼
> 
> plus i really do like this dynamic and this storyline and i really do wanna be able to write it and write it in a way that does it justice, if that makes sense
> 
> lemme know what you think?

**HARLEY**

Harley doesn’t think she’s ever moved so fast in her entire _life_ : recoiling violently and clambering down off Green Lady’s lap the moment she’s proposed her absolutely _bonkers_ scheme. And, funnily enough, Green Lady lets her. How ironic is that?

A minute ago she couldn’t move an inch with Green Lady’s strong arms keeping her steady, but now… Now, she’s broken free without a bit of trouble, free to back away like her life depends on it. 

And the whole time, Green Lady just fuckin' _sits_ there, all perfect-looking and endlessly composed. There isn’t an ounce of tension in her posture—legs comfortably askew, green hands beginning to fiddle with the stiff cuffs of her dress shirt. By all accounts, she seems entirely unbothered by the way things are unfolding, how Harley’s absolutely flippin’ her _shit_ over what’s happenin' right now. 

It’s pure adrenaline that’s fueling her now, unadulterated pent-up anxiety that’s rendering her brash (correction: fucking _stupid_ ) enough to openly act out with such insolence before one of Mistah J’s paying customers (which, conveniently enough, she’d quite forgotten until now) as if she wasn’t gonna end up gettin’ her ass _beat_ for it. 

“Are you fuckin’ _crazy_ ?” Harley hisses out incredulously. 

The drywall is cool as it brushes up against her shoulder blades from behind. The throbbing ache between her legs abates sharply in favor of an all-too-familiar coldness that seeps throughout her veins like liquid frostbite, chilling her powerfully from the inside out with something far too close to self-aggrandizing dread for her comforts. 

“I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘crazy.’"

“Tell me this is your sick idea of a joke,” Harley insists next, almost near the point of outright begging. “ _Tell_ me it’s a joke.”

Green Lady’s lips twitch. Her head tilts to the such such that the blueish luminescence falls just so across her green-ish skin, and fuck, but Harley can’t help thinking she’s likely the most captivating creature she’s ever seen. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Y-You—" Harley sputters, cheeks flushing in earnest. “ _No,_ y—you can’t _do_ this!"

Green Lady frowns, methodically rolling one cuff up just beneath her left elbow to expose a slender forearm before calmly starting on the other. And all the while, she remains entirely oblivious (or at least, doing a damn good job of acting it) to the way the objectively rather simple action has white-hot arousal pooling low in Harley's gut, tugging at the frayed edges of her waning restraint. 

It’s a stark contrast to the icy fear solidifying beneath her skin, to be sure. She doesn’t quite know how to feel about it 

“I assure you, Harley,” she practically _purrs_ , "I can.”

“ _No_ ,” Harley objects hotheadedly, frustration mounting borderline painfully in her chest. “You _can’t_. You’re gonna get yourself fuckin' _killed_. And, if you think for a _second_ I’m gonna _help_ you on this suicide mission of yours? ‘Cause that’s what it is: a suicide mission—you got whole nother thing comin’.”

“Aw,” Green Lady mocks a discontented pout, false empathy lacing her resonant tone like a deadly poison, the kind Harley knows will kill her in a second if she’s not careful. “What happened to my obedient little girl?” she taunts, and Harley _hates_ the pang of arousal she feels amidst the righteous indignation stirring uproariously in her gut. "I could’ve _sworn_ she was here just a second ago… "

Harley feels the flush heating her cheeks deepen tenfold. “That ain’t funny.”

Green Lady quirks a single brow up at Harley, rolling up her other dress shirt sleeve one final time beneath her elbow so that it matches the one on her left. 

“I did not mean it in jest, angel.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harley snaps, though the quip lacks its usual sting. 

(And, by the way Green Lady’s lips curl into a borderline vainglorious smirk in response, she knows it, too.)

“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it.”

Harley clenches her jaw, folding her arms indignantly beneath her chest. (And if she’s disappointed by the way Green Lady’s shadowy green-eyed gaze doesn’t so much as flicker down to her boobs for even a second, she does her damndest not to show it.) “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t think that’s for you to decide, now, is it?”

Harley lets out a quiet (but decidedly displeased) huff, allows her head to fall back against the cool drywall behind her. Her hooded eyes remain trained upon Green Lady where she sits in the centre of the floor: an unreadable look in her eye, that infuriating smirk, those ridiculously attractive goddess-like features cast into blue-ish light. 

“I just don’t _get_ it,” she murmurs out quietly after a protracted moment or two of silence, scarcely audible over the thumping bass of trashy club music filtering tacitly through the drywall. 

Green Lady tilts her head, her interest piqued. “Get what?”

“Why you’d wanna go up against Mistah J. He’s… well, he’s _Mistah J_.”

“You’re afraid of him,” Green Lady says. (It’s not a question.)

Harley gives a shallow nod, the movement slightly stilted and awkward with her head still pressed up against the dry wall behind her. “I don’t for the life of me know why you ain’t.”

“He hurts you,” Green Lady observes monotonously next, subverting Harley’s unspoken question entirely. “And he threatens the livelihood of your child in order to ensure you remain compliant."

“It’s not so bad,” Harley mumbles weakly. (The lie leaves a sour taste on her tongue.) She tightens her grip around herself until she’s very nearly (and visibly, at that) attempting to curl into herself, to hide beneath her very skin until it all passes by. 

Green Lady purses her lips slightly—the first discernible sign since they’ve begun that any of this is negatively affecting her. (Harley can’t tell if it’s because she hates Mistah J or because Harley’s confident facade is crumbling before her very eyes. Probably the former, since Harley knows better than to think she’s worth fussing over in the first place.)

“I thought I told you not to lie to me,” Green Lady chastises, her tone gentle yet laced with an unmistakable reprimand that lands like a blow. 

Harley’s cheeks flush. “‘M sorry… Ma’am.”

“You need not apologize, sweet girl—not to anyone, and certainly not to me.”

Harley’s gaze darts instinctively to the ground (littered with a myriad of questionable-looking stains) as she shyly whispers out, “What if I wanted to?” before she can think better of it. _Christ, she needs a filter._

“Well, then I certainly have no objections to that,” Green Lady muses, sounding indubitably pleased. (A not-so-small part of Harley positively preens at the sound of it.) “Just so long as you know it is by no means a requirement.”

“I do,” Harley assures her, unable to conceal the note of childlike earnestness from her tone as she darts her gaze back up to meet Green Lady’s gaze for the teeniest of seconds before once again casting them subserviently downwards. “Ma’am.”

“You truly are a marvel,” Green Lady murmurs aloud then, seemingly more to herself than to Harley. The casual praise has Harley instinctually clenching her thighs together. “I will not implicate you in my contrivances against the Joker, not unless you yourself see fit to willingly engage.”

Harley’s sure her face is quite nearly in danger of bursting into fuckin’ flames. Still, she tamps down on that infectious feeling, raises her chin bravely to meet Green Lady’s lofty gaze as she asks, “But… Why you tellin’ me all this in the first place then, if you know I can't help ya?”

“‘Can’t’ and ‘won’t’ are two very different things,” Green Lady corrects, leaning forward in her seat to rest cuffed elbows atop her knees. 

“Tushy.”

“‘Touché.'”

“Whatever."

Green Lady chuckles at that, low and rich. (It sends a shiver down Harley’s spine.) 

“And, as for why I’m telling you of my admittedly somewhat audacious plot to begin with, I daresay I haven’t quite yet shown you enough such that you might make an informed decision on whether or not you’ll assist me in this endeavor.”

“… Huh?”

“Come home with me. One night. I will not expect any favors from you, sexual or otherwise,” Green Lady intones moderately, like her words aren’t enough to leave Harley’s head spinning in their wake. “I simply wish to show you my intentions, and my… qualifications… for the task at hand.”

Gooseflesh rises all up and down Harley’s exposed arms despite the warmth of the stuffy backroom. “‘Qualifications’?”

“One night. That is all I ask.”

Harley blinks owlishly, struggling to understand. “I mean, that ain’t really up to me, Ma’am, ‘cause Mistah J—"

“If you reject the offer, I will not solicit the Joker to grant me your company for the night. This decision is yours and yours alone; I will not take it from you.”

Harley snorts inelegantly at that before she can stop herself, brows raised. “You really are some kind'a crazy, aren’t ya?”

Green Lady’s lips curl into a genuine grin at that, her wide smile dimpling green-tinged cheeks. “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

— — 

Minutes later, and they’re still in the backroom. Green Lady hasn’t moved an inch, still seated comfortably atop the single chair in the centre of the room. Harley, meanwhile, leans herself as nonchalantly as she can manage against the drywall. 

Patience has never been her strong suit, but she waits quietly for the Green Lady to break the silence between them despite the nausea churning in her gut. After all, she’s intimately familiar with the swift repercussions should she dare speak out of turn.

(No matter how different this enigmatic lady seems, or that Harley's beginning to seriously doubt she’d be cruel enough to whip and beat Harley bloody like Mistah J did for even the tiniest infraction, she knows better than to throw such unnecessary caution to the wind on the basis of some half-cocked hypothesis. 

No, she can't afford to be that stupid.

If not for her own sake, then for Eli’s. _Always_ for Eli’s.)

Green Lady glances at an expensive-looking gold-plated watch around her left wrist. “It was 11:42 when we came back here, and it’s 12:07 now,” Green Lady muses. “How long do these… appointments of yours typically last, Harley?”

Harley sighs soundlessly to herself, hating the way her chest _aches_ for Green Lady to call her something other than “Harley.” She _wants_ to feel small and compliant and _good_ like before. It’s pitiful, she knows, taking even a second to bemoan the fact that Green Lady didn’t see fit to call her “darling” or “sweet girl” or perhaps even “ _good girl_ ” this time like Harley so desperately wishes she might—

Ahem. 

_Get it together, Quinzel._

She feels her cheeks flush as Green Lady cocks a single expectant brow. “I mean, I—Well, it kinda depends, y’know,” she fumbles, trying to make up for her lapse. “‘Cause most of the time it’s gangsters and creepy old guys who can’t last longer than, like, four minutes—"

Both of Green Lady’s perfectly-shaped brows begin to creep towards her hairline.

“—I mean, not that you needed t’know that, I just—Well, the gals usually take longer, ‘cause, you know… "

Green Lady’s lips twitch, hooded eyes bright with something like genuine amusement. “Yes, indeed” she drawls. "I think that I do.”

“—Not that I’m, like, _assumin’_ anything, like, with you, ya' know, but—And, not that I think you’d even _want_ to, like, do anything! I just—"

“Harley,” Green Lady interjects smoothly, a wry grin dimpling her cheeks. "Just give me a number—in minutes, preferably.”

Harley gulps down the rest of her ramblings, barely aware of herself even as she stutters out, “M-Maybe 30 minutes for a lady? Tops?”

Green Lady simply nods in reply, as if that answer satisfies her curiosity. “So, we have," she pauses herself to glance at her watch once more, “exactly four minutes.” 

She stands from the chair and rises swiftly to her full height, then, rendering herself perhaps an inch (maybe less) above Harley—which is saying something, considering Harley’s balancing atop ridiculously tall stripper heels while Green Lady’s wearing a pair of shiny black dress shoes that can’t be giving her more than a half inch on top of her normal stature. 

Harley swallows thickly, not daring to move even as Green Lady makes her approach, closing the short distance between them in a matter of seconds until they’re _close_ —close enough that the stiff fabric of her blouse brushes teasingly betwixt the swells of Harley’s covered breasts on every breath. 

Harley can feel every breath she takes, every exhale where it ghosts hotly over her lips. The forest-y scent of her fills Harley’s nostrils, permeating each of her senses like the sweetest perfume. 

“You look far too collected for someone that’s meant to have spent the last twenty minutes entirely at my wicked mercy, little one,” Green Lady breathes out,. She leans in ever-so-slightly, allowing their open-mouthed lips to touch for a split second before abruptly pulling back. 

A keening whine escapes Harley at the sudden loss, though Green Lady seems to pay it no mind. She brings one hand up to take Harley’s jaw in a firm grip, the other curling around Harley's waist to pull her close. Her proximity is something profound, her embrace so warm and secure and _safe_ around her that Harley finds herself practically melting into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. (Like it doesn’t scare the ever-living beJesus out of her.) 

She doesn’t want to keep her distance right now. She doesn’t want to retreat into her own mind until she’s floating—up, up, up into the sky; too high and too far to feel any of the awful things happening to her body back on the ground. 

No, she wants to be _here_ for this, for Dr. Pamela Isley and her intoxicating scent and the way she treats Harley like she’s worth a little (or a lot) more than her Puddin’ always said, like maybe she’s a person rather than just a set of holes to fuck… like maybe there’s more to this whole “life” thing than fucking a different jackass every night just to get the chance to see Eli for weekly visits under Mistah J’s bug-eyed supervision.

And that? That’s just about the scariest thought she’s had in a long fuckin’ time.

Still, Harley is nothin’ if not quick on her feet, and a second later sees her firing back with a sultry, “Maybe you should do somethin’ about it, then… Ma’am.” 

Green Lady chuckles. “Oh, I plan to.”

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'm getting an idea for where i want this to go


	4. burning bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Green Lady strikes a deal with the devil, affording the two of them some time alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay uhh i didn't really proofread this but i wanted to get something out and also i ate SHIT skateboarding with the kid i tutor today so my road rash is absolutely BURNING on both my elbows and knees right now 
> 
> so let me know if there are any glaring errors and i'll de ftry to get to them but other than that, enjoy?

**HARLEY**

Things happen pretty damn quick after that. 

Green Lady ravishes Harley like Harley’s oxygen and she’s desperate for air, leaving her gasping in the wake of it: blood-red lipstick smudged across her chin, lips glistening and swollen with the remembrance of her kiss, lungs burning in a desperate bid to catch her breath. 

And, amidst all that, Green Lady looks fuckin’ _perfect_ somehow. The only sign of their previous less-than-orthodox… _activities_ is a small smear at the corner of her reddish lips, that which she remedies swiftly with a deft swipe of her thumb. 

Then she’s procuring a silken pocket square from nowhere, extending it out to a wide-eyed Harley who’s still panting for breath against the wall. 

“Here,” she proffers, ever the gentlewoman. “Use this.”

“N-No,” Harley manages to stammer out before she can think to stop it, heartbeat thudding against her ribs—

Wait. She just said “No.” To a _client_. Of _Mistah J’s_. 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_.

Green Lady frowns. “'No’?”

_Oh God_. 

_Think, Harley. Think._

“Well,” Harley begins, suddenly feeling rather lightheaded for all the wrong reasons, horror filling her chest at how easily something like the truth fell so smoothly off her tongue: "I-I’m s’posed to have spent the last thirty minutes letting you do whatever you want to me, r-right? And since you’re one ‘a Mistah J’s guys, you ain’t supposed to care what I look like when we’re finished.”

The next exchange passes in something of a blur, even as Harley can’t help thinking it’s something like a miracle that Green Lady hasn’t backhanded her to Mars yet for bein’ so fucking insubordinate and _stupid_ —and it gets worse, if you can believe it. (Honestly, Harley shouldn’t have dared to expect any different.)

“Fair enough.” Green Lady pointedly withdraws the pocket square, an unreadable emotion flickering across her gaze whilst she tucks it back into her breast pocket. “But I’m not, you know.”

“Not what?”

“One of the Joker’s… _associates_.” She spits out the last word through gritted teeth like it’s poison, like she’s fighting herself tooth and nail not to replace it with something more crude. Harley thinks she likes her all the more for that. 

Cue the worst of it: “I’d like to believe you, Ma’am,” Harley hears herself say from beneath a sea of numb, unable to make herself just _stop_ , Goddammit. “But trust don’t come that easy.” (At this point, she feels like just flinging herself off the nearest cliff, getting it over with before her Puddin’ gets his hands on her—heaven knows it’d probably hurt a helluva lot less.)

“Well, then. I look forward to earning yours,” Green Lady entreats without a second’s hesitation (as if it’s normal, as if their entire exchange from the past thirty seconds has been _normal_ ). Then she’s offering a single hand out to Harley, a mischievous grin dimpling her cheeks. “Shall we?”

— — 

It’s a quick journey back to the foyer, then. 

Green Lady keeps Harley close in an overtly possessive grip as the two of them make their way down the cramped corridor, steering her past a multitude of structurally-suspect-looking black-painted tables (for the customers) and towards the front of the establishment. 

Mistah J’s there lounging brashly on the upholstery with the rest of his associates, a decidedly insane look plastered upon his clownish features. 

Green Lady’s grasp on her is tight, nearly hard enough to bruise as they draw nearer. Harley welcomes it, allows herself to sag heavily into Green Lady’s steely embrace, a lazy smirk pulling at her swollen lips for reasons entirely her own, the approval she’s wont to garner from Mistah J at this candid show of malleability in the hands of his clientele the farthest thing from her mind. 

“Doctor Isley!” he calls grandly once they’ve arrived at the lavish booth in question, spreading his hands in a grand gesture of welcome (or something like it, at least) even as his coal-black eyes rake invasively over every inch of Harley’s half-limp figure. Eventually, they come to settle intently upon her face, no doubt taking gleeful note of the conspicuously smeared makeup and blissed-out expression on her pale features. 

“Joker,” Green Lady acknowledges, her voice brittle yet modest. She betrays no hint of her collusion with Harley of just moments earlier, nor the sheer measure of _humanity_ she demonstrated towards Harley the second the two of them had been left alone.

“I see you enjoyed your time with my plaything,” he croons with a broad and crooked grin that dimples his scarred cheeks, crazed dark irises boring into Green Lady’s. “She’s a talented little minx, isn’t she?” His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip, primordial lust igniting in his plutonic gaze. “Good with her tongue.”

Green Lady’s perfectly-manicured nails dig into the exposed flesh above her hipbone for a second or two at that, but the sensation is gone as quickly as it’s come. She isn’t above admitting she wants more of it. 

“Yes, she _is_ quite lovely,” Green Lady muses steadily out, chin held high and intent green-eyed gaze boring down into Mistah J’s; Harley shudders reflexively as she feels the vibrations accompanying each of Green Lady’s measured syllables against her own flushed skin. “Her… capabilities have rather drawn my interest.”

“Oh?” her Puddin’ plays the self-cast role of pleasantly surprised pimp to a fuckin’ T: all raised brows (what’s left of them, anyhow, after having been bleached and obscured beneath a thick coating of white powder) and expertly-subdued interest glimmering in his gaze. 

“I’d like to have her for the night—at your discretion, of course,” she graciously defers, though there’s something dangerously akin to a challenge coloring her silken tone that has Harley’s frayed nerves standing on end. (Honestly at this point, Harley’s pretty much past speculating on whether or not Green Lady’s got a serious death wish. It’s become abundantly clear that she doesn’t much give a shit either way.) “Name your price.”

Mistah J’s shit-eating grin widens (such that Harley thinks for a second his whole face might split in two) even as Harley feels her stomach actively tying itself into sickening knots. “Gladly.”

— — 

“Did he buy it?” Green Lady questions, her expression plain and unreadable. 

They’ve settled across from one another on plush black leather seats that smell like evergreen forests and rich people inside a really freaking expensive black town car that’d been idling by the curb outside the nightclub when the two of them had finally made their escape. Green Lady had rushed ahead to open the door of for Harley like some knight out of a freakin' fairy tale, ushering her inside with a gentle hand at the small of her back and only climbing in after her when Harley had settled. 

Harley raises her brows, one leg crossed tightly over another in a last-ditch attempt to quell what remains of the lingering arousal between her thighs. “You’re askin’ me?”

Green Lady quirks a single brow wordlessly back at Harley, stern gaze narrowing. 

“Ma’am,” Harley hastily adds, feeling an entirely unfeigned flush color her pale cheeks. 

“Good,” she purrs, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. (And if it makes Harley’s gaze dart down to her mouth and stay there for a second or two longer than necessary—whatever, alright? She’s only human.) “Now, answer the question, sweetheart.”

Harley feels her thighs clench together of their own accord, bites down _hard_ on her lower lip to stifle the truly shameless whimper that threatens to escape her at the affectionate term of endearment. It’s the perfect mix of playfully condescending and delightfully provocative, and by the way Green Lady’s lips curl into a knowing smirk even as Harley fights tooth and nail to conceal the rather potent effect it has on her, she knows it, too. 

“I—Yeah,” she manages, all too mindful of the breathless quality to her tone. “Yeah, he bought it, Miss.” 

She clamps her mouth shut after that. There's something she’s been dying to say niggling at the back of her mind, crawling its way up her throat, begging to be released—not on her watch, though. Not while she’s still holding onto what precious little remains of her control by the fingertips. 

… Which pretty much works until it doesn’t, AKA until Green Lady uses her super powers of perception to essentially read Harley’s freakin' _mind_. 

“What is it?” she asks, tone earnest and level. 

Harley fights the urge to curse like a sailor beneath her breath out of sheer frustration, because Jesus Christ—can she catch a fuckin’ _break?_

(Evidently not.)

“Hm?” she hums, batting her eyelids at Green Lady as the city lights blur together in her periphery—the very picture of innocence. 

Green Lady’s smirk widens to dimple her green-tinged cheeks at that, like it’s funny.

“Tell me what’s on your mind. And _don’t_ make me ask again.”

Harley swallows thickly at the thinly-veiled threat, a full-bodied shudder racking her body. “I just… You paid a lott’a money for me, Miss.”

Green Lady tilts her head at that, green eyes twinkling with something like bemusement. “I did,” she confirms in that smooth sultry voice of hers, as if it’s of little consequence.

“No one’s ever paid that much for me before, Ma’am,” she continues quietly, silently willing her voice not to tremble as the white-hot arousal flaring in her gut rather abruptly takes the backseat to something worse. 

It swirls nauseatingly in her chest and tightens its freezing-cold grip around her breakable spine and threatens to _fracture_ her from the inside out like nothing else ever could. It’s not the kind of undoing that she ever weathers in public, if she can help it. No, that’s reserved for when she’s alone and (relatively) safe in the dead of night, where no one there to see her shatter.

"Not for a weekend, and _certainly_ not for a measly night.” 

“Are you asking me if I regret it?”

“No. Miss.”

“Are you asking me if what I expect of you—or, perhaps more accurately what I do _not_ expect—has changed?”

“I… I don’t think so, Ma’am.”

“We do not have to have sex tonight, Harley. I will not force myself upon you."

“I—I know that. I-I think. I just… " Harley shakes her head to clear her cluttered thoughts even as she dutifully maintains eye contact. “I just don’t _understand_ , Miss.”

Green Lady’s brows furrow at Harley’s admission, full lips pouting to form an _adorable_ frown. “Understand what?”

“Why you’d pay him so _much_ , Miss. I thought… I thought that you didn’t like him much.”

“I find him positively abhorrent, Harley,” Green Lady growls out, her voice turning cold and hard and _dangerous_. “The exorbitant price I paid was not for his benefit, but rather for yours.”

Harley blinks owlishly back up at her, and somehow she can’t stop the next words from flying out of her mouth before she has a chance to vet them: “I find that hard to believe, Ma’am.” 

(At this point, Harley’s beginning to wonder if Doctor Pamela Isley isn’t the only one with a death wish—because apparently, something once dormant within her very core seems absolutely determined to ensure she can’t possibly get out of this unharmed, much less un- _dead_.

Admittedly, it was probably just a matter of time before something like this came about, before Harley slipped at the wrong time and fucked herself over for good. 

That doesn’t mean it ain’t terrifying just the same.)

“I know, darling girl,” Green Lady replies simply instead of exploding into a fit of unfettered rage like Harley expects her to. No; instead, she’s the very picture of tranquility and _poise_ , calm and collected in a fashion that’s so profoundly unlike anything Harley’s ever seen before—not from any of Mistah J’s clientele and most _certainly_ not from the egomaniacal man himself. “I know.”

The remainder of the approximately 20 minute car ride passes in relative silence. Harley fidgets absentmindedly in her seat as the city lights of Gotham (straining from beneath a heavy cover of grey-ish smog) whip past like shooting stars in her periphery, setting Green Lady's lone figure alight in split-second-long flashes of exposure. It provides a spectacle that manages to hold Harley’s hyperactive attentions like even the goofiest and most irreverent cartoons on the telly never could. 

It’s like art, watching her; and the whole time, Green Lady just _lets_ her. 

(Harley can list a good handful of Mistah J’s people who would have her restrained and beaten bloody on the spot for having the gall to do something like that.)

Consequently (and for just about the millionth time that night), Harley can’t help wonderin’:

_What in he actual fuck is this lady’s deal?_

(She figures she’ll find out sooner or later… likely the former, she thinks, since she’s currently looking at an entire night’s worth of stolen—not to mention _obscenely expensive_ —moments stretched out before them. 

She’s set to spend hours at the mercy of this unreadable goddess with skin like poison ivy and green eyes that glimmer like stars in the heavens above… whose agenda has yet to reveal itself, much to Harley’s chagrin. 

Either way, it’s telling all on its own that Green Lady’s been so mysterious about it up ’til now. Harley's rightfully terrified that this could end really fuckin’ terribly—not only for her, but for _him_.

She didn’t much care for life, before. She didn’t much care for _anything_ until Eli came along, until she looked her beautiful baby boy in those impossibly wide blue-green eyes for the very first time and she knew right then and there beyond a shadow of a doubt that things wouldn’t ever be the same. 

They weren’t— _aren’t_ , because she used to have nothing but now she stands to lose _everything_ , and maybe she damn well deserves it, but Eli doesn’t. 

No, he deserves better, and Harley doesn’t fuckin’ _care_ how many bridges she has to burn in order to give that to him. 

She just wonders where Green Lady fits into all of this… if Harley’s gonna have to burn her, too.

She hates that even the thought of torching this bridge between the two of them—flimsy and painfully young as it may be—has her insides churning with unease, like maybe there’s some fundamental part of her that already knows she won’t be burning _shit_ where Green Lady is concerned, not now and certainly not anytime soon… provided she remains true to each and every one of her grandiose and meticulously-crafted words, of course. 

Still, Harley can’t help but wonder whether or not she’ll have the stomach to do what’s necessary if she doesn’t, if Green Lady switches up and screws her over and it’s down to Harley to take her out before she can manage to hurt her where it matters. 

She prays silently up to a god she hasn’t spoken to in a very long time that that day never comes.)

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soft gay IDIOTS


	5. into the shire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Holy shit,” Harley breathes out before she can think to come up with something ( _anything_ ) better, the awe conveyed in her tone paling drastically in comparison to the amazement she feels burgeoning rapidly within her chest at the spectacle before her. “This is… Holy shit.”
> 
> Or: Green Lady gives Harley a taste of her world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back! hopefully i can manage to wrap this one up soon, though i feel like i've kinda opened a can of proverbial worms here with the amount of backstory i've done and the amount that is yet to be expanded upon 
> 
> but anyways
> 
> guys  
> big ⚠️trigger WARNING ⚠️ 
> 
> in the beginning of the chapter, harley is remembering some graphic details of her past sexual abuses/assaults at the hands of joker's "clientele" (i'm p sure including slightly more graphic detail than i've utilized in previous chapters)
> 
> so please please PLEASE don't read if you think that'll trigger you (i know exactly how badly that sucks and i do NOT write this with the intention of ever hurting anyone or fucking with someone's recovery)
> 
> stay safe you guys<3<3<3

**HARLEY**

20 minutes later (or somethin’ like that—Harley’s not stupid enough to bother asking), the shiny town car pulls past a real fancy-looking apartment building in the (relatively) quieter part of Gotham city proper. 

Without a word, the driver hangs a right and turns smoothly into the adjoining parking garage. 

There’s at least five levels in the concrete structure, and it’s about half-stocked with a sea of sleek multicolored cars that are each easily worth more than Harley makes in a week. (… Well. Except this week, that is, ‘cause with the tidy sum of cold hard cash Green Lady paid to have Harley tonight, she thinks she could pay through the next five years at Eli’s ridiculously priced elementary school, _easy_. Fuck a cherry-red Lamborghini.)

It’s somewhat dark within the car’s all-black leather interior even as an awe-struck Harley gapes out the tinted window, unapologetically enraptured by the attractive assortment of cars they're cruising past beneath bright lights overhead. 

She feels Green Lady’s gaze upon her after a moment or two and wonders briefly what she thinks of her, the near-naked whore in her car with chemically-bleached-white skin and borderline pornographic tattoos and a starry-eyed fascination at pretty much any and every shiny thing that crosses her path. 

(Somehow, Harley doubts it’s anything good… if she’s lucky, Green Lady’s just starin’ at her tits or something. 

If she’s not—which she usually ain’t, mind you…. well. She doesn’t really wanna think about that right now.) 

They get three levels up before the town car rolls to a stop just feet from a set of polished black double doors (equipped with a minimalist two-button panel)—an elevator. 

Green Lady gets out without a word (though not before reaching out to pluck a heap of expensive-looking black fabric lying a couple feet from where Harley sits with a graceful sweep of the hand). If she notices the way Harley’s entire body tenses in response, she doesn’t comment on it.

Then, she’s murmuring out a quiet “Stay here, sweetling,” over her shoulder as she exits the car, then slams the door shut behind her. 

(The entire sequence takes nothing more than a handful of seconds, though to Harley it feels more like an eternity—God, she doesn’t get what Green Lady’s _doin’_ paying for some grievously unstable whore when it’s becoming all too clear that she could literally have anyone she chose, regardless of gender.)

Harley listens intently to the _click, click, click_ of her heels as she circles ‘round the trunk of the car and up to Harley’s door, opening it without flourish and stepping ever-so-politely to the side with a single hand outstretched.

“Come,” she orders simply, her silken tone modest but uncompromising, the heap of coal-black fabric from earlier (which Harley now sees is a neatly-pressed blazer) folded aptly over her other arm. 

Harley does, murmuring a demure “Yes, Miss” as she clasps the proffered hand lightly in her own then steps out of the idling car. Her legs tremble like she’s just run a marathon, whether from nerves or just exhaustion. She curses herself internally for being unable to hide such a blatant show of weakness. 

(She scarcely takes notice of the way her hand slips from Green Lady’s grip, her head spinning and legs aching and stomach churning with nausea and hunger.)

For better or for worse, though, Green Lady immediately takes note of Harley’s predicament, sidling up beside her and curling an arm round her waist to keep her upright. Her legs wobble, black spots cloud the edges of her vision, and the soles of her feet ache something awful from dancing in heels all night.

“Harley?” she questions, a vaguely panicked edge to her tone. 

Her voice sounds tinny, Harley notes hazily. Far away, like Harley’s here but she’s not and she’s so confused because her slow, _stupid_ brain can’t seem to figure out whether that feels safer or just the opposite. 

“Harley? Talk to me.”

She wants to tell Green Lady that it’s okay, that she’s just havin’ another of her spells that she gets sometimes when she stands up a little too quick or takes a turn ‘round the pole a little too fast… that it’s _temporary_ , ‘cause she’ll be back in a jiffy, ready to get back on her knees and give Green Lady her money’s worth for the night. 

Her mouth ain’t really workin’, though, so she just enjoys it while she can—lets herself go boneless against Green Lady’s warm body, melting into that strong embrace like she trusts it to keep her safe for now (which, weirdly enough, she thinks she kinda does).

She doesn’t mind if Green Lady starts kissing up her neck and puttin’ her fingers down Harley’s thong and grinding herself against Harley’s exposed thigh like Harley ain't nothing more than a glorified sex doll, like it doesn’t matter that she isn’t awake to feel one way or another about how Green Lady’s touchin' and tweakin’ and _using_ her body like she owns it. 

(Because, for tonight, she really does own Harley, doesn’t she?)

Harley wonders if she’d actually kinda… _like_ that: the not knowing, the inherent perversion of it, the way she’d wake up with a tingling soreness between her thighs and painful bite marks that form purplish bruises at the base of her neck beneath her collar and evidence of someone else’s arousal smeared across her naked body with absolutely no recollection of how any of it happened. 

She didn’t like it much in the past, to be clear. Actually, she kinda hated it at first… waking up all groggy and achey: dried sperm across her tits, the word “WHORE” scrawled across her stomach in black with permanent marker, cunt red and raw from some intense measure of abuse she couldn’t for the life of her remember… 

Time passed, and she still didn’t much care for it (at _all_ ), but she came to realize that it was actually sorta _better_ sometimes to be conked out rather than wide awake (or drugged but still conscious) while Mistah J’s clients had their fun with her. After all, it wasn’t like she had any say about what they did to her in the first place, so there wasn’t much difference between men that preferred her unconscious and those that wanted her conscious other than how much of the abuse she remembered at the very end of it all. 

That in mind, wasn’t it just better overall to forget? Or—not forget, she supposed, because forgetting implies that there was anything to remember to begin with. 

No, better just not to know at all, she eventually decided. 

But now… well. Now, things feel like they might just be different this time, even if Harley’s probably a damned fool for thinking so.

She’ll digress. Remember how she said these spells only lasted a minute or two? 

Sure enough, she comes out the other end of the proverbial tunnel with all her wits about her and a curious renewed sense of arousal flaring between her thighs. A decidedly worried-looking pair of green eyes and perfect red-painted lips loom over her, a silken voice gently coaxing her back to reality. 

“Harley, darling? Talk to me, please,” she implores, a curious softness to her tone that has a goofy grin spreading across Harley’s sore lips in spite of herself even as her head spins and her eyelids flutter and she struggles to comprehend what’s happening.

“‘Mokay, Miss,” she manages to slur out in a garbled tone, basking in the warmth of Green Lady’s figure pressed flush against her own, the feather-light stroke of her fingers tucking loose strands of Harley’s hair behind her ear. 

Green Lady breathes out something that sounds half like a defeated sigh and half like a relieved chuckle, her warm breath (—smelling of mints and whiskey—) ghosting gently across Harley’s nose. (It kind of tickles.) “I think you and I have drastically different understandings of the term ‘okay,’ little one."

Harley just grins lazily up at her, focusing intently upon the blooming greens of Green Lady’s fuckin’ entrancing eyes. (She finds that the harder she focuses, the less the LED bulbs of the parking garage overhead sting her eyeballs. Plus, Green Lady has a _really_ nice pair of pretty green eyes, in case that’s something she’s failed to mention as of yet.)

“You don’t gotta worry,” she hums offhandedly, head buzzing pleasantly. As such, she doesn’t even think to vet her next words before they escape her (something she’ll no doubt remember later on and hit her head profusely against the nearest wall in chastisement for): “I _pinky_ promise I won’ fight or scream or say ’No’ unless you want me to! Plus, Mistah J had me think up a bunch a’ punishments with him that’ll hurt me real bad when ‘m a bad girl ‘cause he says it ain’t a punishment if I like it—I can tell ya ‘bout them! I—"

“Stop,” Green Lady requests in a firm but non-yell-y moderate tone. Instantaneously, Harley clamps her jaw shut. “I want you to do three things for me, Harley. Are you listening?”

Harley blinks obediently up at her, eyes wide. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“I want you to let me put my blazer around your shoulders. Then, I want you to walk with me to the elevator,” she speaks in a cool, measured tone. Idly, Harley wonders what it’d feel like to fall asleep listening to her talk. (Or maybe she could read Harley a story! _Stupid_ , she chastises herself, banishing the foolish thought with haste. _Whores don’t get bedtime stories_.) "When we get inside, I’d like you to press the button with the letter ‘P.’ And lastly, I want you to be completely silent while you do—only speaking when spoken to until I tell you that you may speak freely. Do you understand?”

Harley gives a shallow nod, running her tongue against her lower lip and silently lauding herself when Green Lady’s green eyes flicker down for a split second. _Simple enough_. “Yes, Miss.”

Green Lady’s grip tightens around Harley’s waist, her next words coming out in something of a growl that thrills Harley from head to toe: “Good girl.” 

— — 

The elevator is fancy… like, insanely so. (Though, Harley supposes she couldn’t have expected anything less.) 

The interior is all shiny silvery metallic material offset by a handful of thin matte-black strips running horizontal to the ceiling around the carriage. The floor is polished white marble infused with wisps of its natural greyish hues, reflective enough that Harley can see herself (and Green Lady, too) pretty clearly if she squints for a second or two. 

The buttons are pretty, too—all black, shiny and deep with a neatly-painted white letter on each of ‘em right smack dab in the middle.

(There’s half a fingerprint on one of them, the button labeled “29”… Harley likes that. It makes the place seem less futuristic and antiseptic… more _human_.) 

The buttons are organized really neatly in a 4 x 8 array (topped with an additional one at the top labeled “P,” which Harley had made a point to press _super_ carefully—and _super_ quietly—the very moment the shiny grey doors had slid shut behind them). As soon as she presses it, its circumference lights up all bright and white. 

_Definitely_ LEDs. 

(She wonders briefly what it’d look like if she just went and pressed _all_ the buttons and made them all light up, like Buddy in Elf. It’d be really pretty, she thinks. 

Still, she knows better than to test that theory.)

Green Lady stands tall and pretty as ever with a steadying hand at Harley’s lower back and another holding a sleek black phone to her ear. She talks quickly into the speaker while Harley bites her lip anxiously and watches the glowing white number above the doors go from 3, to 4, to 5, and so on. She doesn’t listen in on Green Lady’s phone call (… _much_ ), just gazes at the changing number and lets her mind wander… 

She thinks about Eli, about how it was his ninth birthday just weeks ago and he’s getting so big—his oddly-shaped little head now reaches well past Harley’s waist. He’s so much smarter already than Harley’s ever been, whipping through two-digit multiplication and analog time problems and (most recently) long division like it’s nothing. 

He loves to read, too—something Harley knows damn well he didn’t get from her, let alone from Mistah J. 

He’s reading Percy Jackson now, and Harry Potter, too. Last time they got to visit, Eli _begged_ her to read the second book in the Lightning Bolt series (“Sea of Monsters” or something like that) aloud. 

Harley ain’t never been much of a reader, but she stared real hard at every page and traced her finger carefully beneath every single line to make sure she didn’t skip anything and did different voices for Percy and Annabelle (or whatever her name is) and everyone else, all of which Eli seemed to like well enough, if the little giggles and squeals and gasps he made throughout their reading time were any indication. 

They were halfway through the part about Scylla and Charybdis, if Harley remembers correctly, when Mistah J yanked her away. 

Eli cried—sobbed, really—when she left, big fat tears falling from those perfect hazel-green eyes (the same ones which just minutes ago were alight with joy and excitement) down freckled cheeks, his tiny little hands reaching desperately out for her even as one of Mistah J’s lackeys easily held him back by the collar of his T-shirt. Mistah J himself dragged Harley forcefully out the small apartment space with a knife to her throat and an unspoken threat against Eli’s livelihood looming ominously overhead to ensure her unconditional cooperation. 

(And as soon as the door shut behind her and Mistah J, Harley was sobbing too, all messy and wet and uncontrollable even while Mistah J shoved her down the hall and into the small cramped elevator a couple doors down, snarling at her to “Quit sniveling, bitch."

She didn’t stop wailing no matter how much Mistah J yelled at her—and boy, did he yell. 

She just _couldn’t_ , not when it felt like her heart had been quite literally torn from out her chest, soul-crushing grief setting her very insides alight with a white-hot pain unlike any else she’d ever known, her body racking itself with the agonizing sensation of missing her baby beautiful boy so intensely she thought it might kill her… She just _couldn’t_. 

… That is, until finally he said that if Harley was gonna make things hard for him every time he was nice enough to let her see Eli, he just wasn’t gonna take her anymore. That shut her up _real_ quick.)

She’s pulled from her thoughts of Eli and Mistah J and every last fucked-up piece of _that_ can of worms—luckily, well before it can _really_ upset her. She can’t afford to get lost in that, she knows. Not right now. 

And besides—the elevator doors are sliding open, and Green Lady is leading Harley out into a minimalist (but expensively built) corridor without so much as a word even as Harley can see her surreptitiously pocketing her cell and giving Harley a not-so-subtle once-over outta the corner of her eye.

Still, she gets nothin’ but silence (save for their out-of-sync footfalls echoing throughout the spacious hall) as Green Lady guides her over to—

_What the fuck?_

Harley makes a concerted effort to disguise her bewilderment at the…. whatever the _fuck_ she’s lookin’ at right now:

… Which is a set of double doors (she thinks), but not your everyday big-baller bachelor-pad “I-have-more-money-than-you-and-I-know-it” typa’ deal. Nah, these are… plants?

Well, perhaps more accurately, they’re wooden. The doors are composed of a singular freely-flourishing tree trunk, its wood a deep flavorful russet-brown hue, its crimps and creases inlaid with nebulous veins of glistening platinum-silver all throughout. 

There are no roots to be seen, no vessel containing this absolute fuckin’ _giant_ of a seedling. Rather, the reflective Italian marble flooring beneath fits all too perfectly round the base of the massive trunk, thereby concealing the roots (assuming there are roots to be had) from view. 

It appears, too, that much the same can be said for its crown and adjoining branches. Of course, not all span well past the ceiling and up to some unknown (though undoubtedly staggering) height. No, there are a handful of pronged identically-colored branches (each bearing blossoms of a magnificent indigo shade) extending down towards a wide-eyed Harley from varying points on the enormous trunk. 

It looks almost as if… as if the very building were built around the plant, as if a whole ass colossus-sized _tree_ weren’t rare enough in a place so urban and polluted as Gotham. 

“Holy shit,” she breathes out before she can think to come up with something ( _anything_ ) better, the awe conveyed in her tone paling drastically in comparison to the amazement she feels at the spectacle before her. “This is… Holy shit.”

Seemingly on cue, a curious thing begins to happen, then. A large circular groove appears across the trunk-carven doors. As Harley watches, the circle begins to turn counterclockwise. One full rotation, then another… and then another. 

As soon as the third and final revolution is complete, many things happen at once: 

The thin nebulous veins of silver seem to melt, trickling down the surface of the wooden trunk, though not doing so randomly by any means. Rather, they seep with a purpose, with an apparent destination in mind, lulling and flowing towards the juncture between the stem of this massive plant and the cool reflective marble floors, seeping through the invisible cracks and eventually disappearing from sight entirely without so much as a lingering trace. 

Simultaneously, the meter-long sphere depressing the wooden doors begins to almost… disband, though Harley thinks that that probably isn’t the right word for it. 

It’s like, where there was once solid, firm wood constituting the set of doors before them, there now becomes an ever-thinning opulence of plant-like tendrils withdrawing into the woodwork. They leave a circular hole in their wake through which Harley’s disbelieving eyes witness a glimpse of what appears to be a grandiose and spacious gallery further up ahead… presumably where this Green Lady (whoever the _fuck_ she is, other than someone _way_ above Harley’s pay grade) resides. 

Before she can manage to utter out another word, the transformative change persists, all too easily stunning her back into an uncharacteristic silence: the circle begins to expand. Tendrils form from solid wood before Harley’s very eyes, then continue to recede as if governed by some magical force on high, waning and waning and _waning_ until all that remains of the vast hardwood trunk is a circle-shaped doorway composed entirely of cinnamon-brown coils. 

(Its quaint appearance reminds Harley very much of those Hobbit homes in the Shire with the perfectly circular doorways and lively greenery all around. Her mother had adored J.R.R. Tolkien, reading the Lord of the Rings to Harley before bed almost every night until she died.)

And through this magnificent archway, the one that brings a tentative smile to her face for reasons she’s not yet prepared to share with the Green Lady (not with anyone but Eli, really), Harley can see… 

_Jesus_.

The first thing she notices is water—a wide sparkling pool of it just through the arched doorway (peppered with lily pads and clumps of algae), parted down the middle by a bridge of wooden tree tendrils and well-packed dirt. Multicolored blossoms and beauteous leafy curiosities line the well-trodden path along either side.

The next thing she takes notice of is the sunlight—radiant beams of golden amber shining through floor-to-ceiling windows all around, reflecting off the water's fluid surface, causing Harley’s eyes to strain when she chances a look. 

And lastly, at the other end of the bridge, some 30 feet (~9 meters) across… a rectangular landing dock of marble (which looks rather out of place, all things considered) houses a winding spiral staircase (made completely from vines) leading up to… somewhere. The second level of the penthouse? The roof, maybe?

“Welcome to my home, Harley,” Green Lady intones, her tone measured and saturated with a kind of unwavering neutrality Harley can’t help melting into like it’s home, like she knows it’ll catch her when she falls. (It’s a beautiful and terrifying thought.) "I hope you’ll make yourself comfortable here.” 

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't get me wrong, i thought tolkien was boring as shit
> 
> (the movies were lit tho)
> 
> but he was also a brilliantly descriptive writer, and high school me did nOT appreciate that when i had him for required reading in my sci fi class


	6. white wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you wish not to argue with me because there’s a part of you that agrees with me, because you don’t agree but prefer to avoid confrontation if at all possible, or because you fear I’ll punish you for daring to speak against me?"
> 
> Harley gulps, the corners of her lips twitching into a rueful smile before she can think better of it. “All of the above?”
> 
> “Do you enjoy wine?”
> 
>  _Huh?_ “I… Yes, Miss, I do,” she answers readily, tamping down on her bafflement. 
> 
> ( _This woman really is something else_ , she thinks.) 
> 
> “What’s your favorite kind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realized that this like one night has stretched over a Lot of chapters ............ oops i guess i just have a lot to SAY about these interactions aight i really do apologize maybe i can go back and cut it down later kjs

**HARLEY**

Green Lady doesn’t wait for Harley to muster up a response. 

Rather, she strides through the circular entryway without a moment’s haste, bypassing its wondrously earthy curvature as if it isn’t the single most magnificent fuckin’ thing Harley’s seen in her entire life. (Well—besides Eli, that is.)

“Follow me, Harley,” she calls over her shoulder as she ventures to make her way down the path. Her dress shoes are soundless on the glorious trail—a wondrously agrarian combination of well-trodden-down dirt and russet-brown tree tendrils spanning a good 30 feet (~9 meters) up ahead.

Harley nearly trips over her own feet multiple times in her haste to obey... which would be pretty fuckin’ unfortunate, considering the six-inch stripper heels and the unevenness of the makeshift “bridge” beneath her, making falling face-first into the algae-dotted waters on either side a very real concern.

Steeling herself, she wills her legs not to tremble (much) with every stride and follows cautiously after Green Lady. All the while, she has to make a very conscientious effort not to blurt out every last burning question (of which there are a whole fucking bunch) she wants so desperately to ask. 

(The moderate yet unwaveringly authoritarian behavior Green Lady has exhibited up until now notwithstanding, one thing’s become alarmingly apparent since arriving at the doors of this quote-unquote “penthouse”: Green Lady—whoever the _fuck_ she is—not only has an utterly obscene amount of money, but a metric _fuck_ -ton of power to go right along with it.

Something’s telling Harley that it’s got more to do than just guns and ammunition and an army of loyal mobsters willing to die for her cause at the slightest inclination. Something’s telling her it’s probably more to do with that preternaturally green-ish tinge to her sweet-smelling skin—a peculiar hue on its own, so unmistakably reminiscent of evergreen forests and poison ivy alike; a flourishing spring and septic contagion. 

Harley can’t help but suspect there’s likely some correlation there. 

She’s different than Mistah J. She’s more _special_ somehow, and Harley ain’t just sayin’ that because she’s super attractive and seems to ooze dominance from every pore and commands Harley around in a way that actually makes her _want_ to listen and obey rather than scoff and bash her brains in like every other greasy asshole in Mistah J’s employ. 

Well, maybe that’s a part of it—whatever, okay? So yeah, she knows how to appreciate art—particularly when “art" takes the form of insanely beautiful and dominant women with smooth green skin and pretty green eyes and a borderline maddening penchant for getting under her skin in a way that no one else ever has. 

Sue her.)

It isn’t long before Green Lady’s crossed the bridge and stands waiting patiently at the other end on the vine-ensnared dock of polished marble. 

Blushing profusely (even as she wills herself to stop being so fuckin’ _weird_ , dammit, because she hasn’t “blushed” since a lifetime ago, when she was known as Dr. Harleen Quinzel rather than the Joker’s whore), Harley makes a conscious effort to quicken her pace. 

She strides past various blooming technicolored biennials with a hell of a lot more confidence than she feels, nerves fluttering in her stomach, anxiety constricting her airway.

And at the end of it, there’s Green Lady: standing with a single hand outstretched, waiting patiently for Harley to approach. 

Patient. She’s always so _fucking_ patient, and Harley has trouble deciding whether she finds it charming or just downright infuriating. (Probably some convoluted mix of the two.)

“Tell me honestly, dear—what do you think of my… accommodations thus far?” Green Lady questions lightly. A tinge of unprecedented uncertainty bleeds into her measured tone, giving Harley pause. "I know they’re a little… unusual.”

“I… “ Harley trails off uselessly, struggling to find the words. She takes Green Lady’s proffered hand, readily allowing the woman to guide her from the bridge onto grey-veined marble flooring. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, Miss.”

The slightest hint of a flush appears across her green-ish cheeks. She looks almost… _embarrassed_. “Again, I know it’s not exactly conventional—"

“No, I—it’s freakin’ _gorgeous_ ," Harley rushes to clarify, genuine elation loosening her tongue and clouding her better judgement (i.e. the judgement that always stopped her from interrupting a client or voicing her own opinions or showing any kind of sincere emotion in the presence of someone who possessed the means—and motive—to make her regret it). “Ma’am, I… Walking through here just now felt like… like a _dream_. It’s _amazing_."

Green Lady arches a single brow at that. 

Harley blushes, resisting the urge to redirect her gaze down towards her feet. 

A moment later, the sickening realization hits her that she’s just spoken out of turn. _Again_.

_God fucking dammit_— 

“Harley? What’s on your mind?”

Harley blinks, taken aback. _Is this a test?_ “I—I interrupted, Ma’am, I am so so _so_ sorry, I promise it’ll never happen again, I—"

“How did the Joker punish you for speaking out of turn?” Green Lady interjects, lips pressed into a thin line. 

Harley's blood turns to ice, bile rising in her throat. _This is the moment I’ve been dreading_ , she thinks. _This is where Green Lady shows her true colors, proving that she’s just like all the rest of ‘em._

Still, she rushes to answer. If nearly a decade serving as the Joker’s bitch has taught her anything, it’s that obedience is safe. 

(Well. As close as she ever gets to it, anyhow. In her life, “safe” is something of a moving target.) 

Thus:

“He made me sleep in the cage,” she whispers out, quiet but firm (or as firmly as she can manage, considering the circumstances). “And if he was feeling really mean, he'd take away my next upcoming visitation with Eli, too.”

Green Lady’s ensuing response is quick, sharp—devoid of compromise. “Death is too kind for him.”

Harley affords her a quiet sigh even as arrant bewilderment at the offbeat direction this conversation is taking curls its way steadily around the base of her spine. “He’s powerful, and he owns me. As long as my usefulness outweighs the trouble of botherin' to keep me on his leash, I get to live another day.”

“That’s not living,” Green Lady argues heatedly, and Harley is hard-pressed to disagree. 

“It ain't about me, Miss. It ain't been about me for a long time—since the day I found out I was pregnant with Eli.”

A spark of righteous anger flashes in Green Lady’s gaze, followed swiftly by a flicker of genuine curiosity. “Does that ever anger you?” she asks, turbulent indignation coloring her otherwise monotonous tone. 

“It used to,” she admits, gently retracting her hand from Green Lady’s relatively lax grip and wincing internally when the woman lets her go without a fight. “Sometimes it still does, though I think I’m always more angry with myself than anybody else. At the end of the day, though, it ain’t productive to get all broody or throw a tantrum about it, ya know? Like I said: it ain’t about me anymore.”

Green Lady is quiet for a long, protracted moment. Eventually, she says, “It’s still your life, Harley."

“I don’t wanna argue with you, Miss, but I’m not so sure that’s true,” Harley replies even as the sheer measure of raw honesty she’s willfully offering seems to gut her from the inside out. It wells inside her until it’s overwhelming, spilling over her skin and branding itself into her very flesh, leaving every last nerve ending open and vulnerable and stinging painfully like a salted wound. 

And still, Green Lady presses. (Gently, of course, but inflexibly; kindly enough to allow a rebuttal, but intently enough to thinly discourage it.) “Do you wish not to argue with me because there’s a part of you that agrees with me, because you don’t agree but prefer to avoid confrontation if at all possible, or because you fear I’ll punish you for daring to speak against me?"

Harley gulps, the corners of her lips twitching into a rueful smile before she can think better of it. “All of the above?”

“Do you enjoy wine?”

_Huh?_ “I… Yes, Miss, I do,” she answers readily, tamping down on her bafflement. 

( _This woman really is something else_ , she thinks.) 

“What’s your favorite kind?”

“I ain't exactly what you’d call well-versed in wines, Miss, but I never say no to Moscato.”

Green Lady grins widely in response to that. It's the kind of smile that doesn’t match the tension Harley feels hovering ever-present between them, but it’s warm and genuine and makes Harley’s stomach explode with butterflies, and that’s enough for her. (More than enough, if she’s honest.) “Moscato it is.”

— — 

Three glasses of wine and an alarming measure of candid dialogue later finds a buzzed (and just bordering on tipsy) Harley up on the second floor of the greenhouse-slash-lavish-apartment. She sits cross-legged upon the spotless white covers of a king-sized bed that feels more like a cloud than anything else, talking about the stupidest things with a larger-than-life woman who doesn’t seem quite so scary anymore. 

For better or for worse, Green Lady's kept her word thus far—the one about them not necessarily doing the dirty tonight. Her distance, too. 

While she’d insisted that Harley sit on the bed, ostensibly in the interest of her comfort, she hadn’t made a single move to join her there. 

Rather, she’d gone about pulling a wooden chair up to the foot of the bed, then settled into it even as a bug-eyed Harley gaped after her. 

And still, that’s where she’s remained for the better part of an hour (or, at least what Harley _thinks_ is probably close to an hour). _Christ_ , if it isn’t confounding. 

It’s wholly impossible to glean meaning from… and that ain’t ever been good news as far as Harley’s concerned. 

But, whatever. It won’t do her any good to ruminate on it. 

Instead, she sips her chilled Moscato (not too much, mind you—she needs to keep a relatively clear head) from a crystalline-clear wine glass, consciously makes an effort to ease the tension from her taut shoulders, and allows herself to engage in a predominantly easygoing stream of back-and-forth dialogue with Green Lady that (miraculously) requires very little on her part beyond a receptive attitude and the occasional bout of uncharacteristic honesty. 

“If you could live anywhere in the world—and, for the sake of the question, let’s pretend that money and working and prior entanglements wouldn’t pose an issue—where would you pick?” Green Lady questions. There’s a subtle flush darkening her olive-tinged cheeks, Harley notices. She can’t help but find it rather lovely. 

“Hong Kong, Miss."

Green Lady arches a single brow. “That was fast.”

Harley shrugs, feeling her face flood with renewed heat beneath Green Lady’s intent scrutiny. “I been there a handful of times, always with Mistah J— _Joker_ ,” she hastens to correct herself, not missing the spark of hostility that flashes in eyes of gorgeous green at the mention of her owner. “He always kept me close, and had me doin’ some things I’m probably gonna be regrettin’ for a long while, but… nothing could take away what that place meant to me. What it _still_ means to me.” 

She stops herself then, ducking her head, white-hot embarrassment arching through her like a molten blade. “Sorry, Miss… I, um. I ramble sometimes, or so people tell me.”

“You needn’t apologize, Harley,” Green Lady immediately reassures her, sincerity gleaming in her eyes alongside the barest hint of mischief. “And regardless of what I said earlier in respects to punishment—or lack thereof—I may just see fit to… _discipline_ you should you continue apologizing for sharing pieces of yourself with me, and far more of them than I’ve earned, at that.”

Harley swallows thickly at that, internally cursing her cross-legged position atop the duvet, which thereby prevents her from clenching her thighs and rubbing them together like she so desperately wants to in a desperate bid for some much-needed _relief_ , damn it. 

Newfound arousal pulses atop the old (the _want_ that’s been mounting at an inanely persistent pace since last night), even as the enduring wetness between her thighs begins surely soaking its way through her lacey panties. It provides a stark contrast unto the decidedly less provocative (but no less weighty) portion of Green Lady’s commentary that lingers stubbornly in the forefront of her mind, begging to be considered. _“Sharing pieces of yourself with me… far more than I’ve earned”_

_“Earned.”_

An odd choice of words, and even that is drastically understating it. 

Because, really—as if she needs to _“earn”_ anything where the Joker’s domesticated whore is concerned, like it’s _she_ who owes benevolence unto Harley rather than the other way around.

“You don’t owe me anythin’, Ma'am,” Harley remarks carefully after a moment, spine tingling even as she valiantly curbs the powerful urge to squirm beneath Green Lady’s unwavering attentions. “You forked over a hell of a lot of dough to buy me for the night, remember?”

Green Lady’s lips twitch with something like humor even as her green-eyed gaze turns doleful. “No matter what you believe, the price I paid for your company tonight does not indenture you to me. If at any point you wish to leave, simply say the word. I’ll prepare you a bag with a suitable sum of cash, food and amenities. From there, my driver will take you anywhere you ask, at no personal expense of your own. I promise you that.”

Harley resists the urge to scoff, the alcohol dulling her inhibitions until it’s all she can do not to say, _"Yeah, right.”_

“And what about in the morning,” she asks instead, purposefully keeping any note of ~~justifiable~~ mistrust from her tone, "when Mist— _Joker_ expects me back? Miss?”

“Whether you choose to return yourself at that time is up to you. Not me.”

“You’d get in trouble with the Joker, big time,” Harley points out, staunchly unconvinced. 

“So would you.”

Harley feels a lopsided smirk curling its way onto her lips at that, because there’s a rather macabre humor to be found in the hopelessness of her situation with regards to Mistah J, in the precious naivety of Green Lady for believing she might be immune to it… to _him_. 

“I’m _always_ in trouble with Mistah J,” she drawls with a crooked grin that suggests it’s funnier than it is. (Or that it’s funny at all… which it isn’t.) “That ain’t new to me, Miss. What I don’t get is why _you’d_ risk it in the first place.”

“He’s a sadistic monster.”

Harley snorts at that. “Agreed, Miss. All the more reason why you don’t go outta your way to piss him off. Hell, I don’t even know how you’re still alive right now.”

Green Lady tilts her head slightly, looking intrigued. “Why is that, kitten?”

Harley clears her throat awkwardly as a renewed flush rises to her cheeks. (And damn her, but the way Green Lady’s impossibly green eyes sparkle with amusement tells Harley that she knows _exactly_ the effect her words are having.) 

“You corrected him,” she manages through a dizzying combination of potent arousal, burning curiosity, and wine-induced tipsiness. “When he didn’t call you ‘Doctor.’ He’s had people executed for less. But… not you.”

Green Lady’s lips quirk upward at the edges like she knows something that Harley doesn’t. “But not me.”

Harley knocks back the remaining white wine before tentatively leaning forward to offer Green Lady the empty glass. Harley’s always had a clumsy habit of breaking things ( ~~mostly~~ _not_ on purpose), especially the important and expensive stuff. 

Green Lady wordlessly takes it, turns in her chair to set it atop the sleek wooden desk behind her. Every movement she makes, every slight twitch in her posture is slow, deliberately telegraphed (presumably) so as not to spook Harley—convince her of her virtuous intent. 

(And the worst part? Harley kind of believes it. Believes _her_.)

It’s a minute or two before either of them speaks, and predictably, it’s Green Lady who breaks the silence. 

“You’re safe here, Harley. I know it’s difficult to take my words at face value, but whether you believe me or not, I can and will protect you. Today, tomorrow, and beyond that, if you’ll allow it.”

There it is again: a choice. Or, at least, the illusion of one. 

Green Lady’s words echo in her thoughts: _“you need not apologize, sweet girl… not to anyone, and certain not to me” … “the decision is yours and yours alone… I will not take it from you” … “sharing pieces of yourself with me … far more than I’ve earned” … “if you’ll allow it”_

“Ya keep doing that,” Harley mumbles out before she can think to stop herself, her better instincts clouded beneath a haze of intoxication. 

Green Lady doesn’t miss a beat. “Doing what?”

“Giving me _choices_.”

“You don’t believe that I mean them?”

Harley heaves a quiet sigh, chest burning with warmth. “I… I don’t know, Miss.”

Green Lady chuckles at that, genuine and unrestrained. And maybe Harley’s a damned fool for thinkin’ it, but it might just be one of the best things she’s ever heard. “That’s quite alright, darling. Trust takes time.”

“Trust is dangerous, Ma’am,” Harley admits, fiddling anxiously with her fingers in her lap. "And trustin' me? It ain’t worth much, I’ll tell you that right now.”

The effect is immediate. The kindly benevolence in Green Lady’s eyes hardens to that of cold indignation. Her jaw visibly clenches; her posture turns stiff where she sits. She makes no move to stand, though, nor does she seem intent on harming her. (Still, that could just be Harley’s wishful—and slightly drunk—thinking.) 

“Belittle yourself again, and we _will_ have to revisit the ‘discipline’ issue,” Green Lady snarls through gritted teeth. Harley can’t help the full-bodied shudder that works its way down her spine as a direct result—part of which is fear-based, though an alarmingly more substantial piece of it is rooted in a deliciously shameful breed of _desire_. “Is that understood?”

Harley gulps down her mounting arousal and dwindling fear (or at least, attempts to), giving Green Lady a frantic set of nods in response. “Y-Yes, Ma’am. U-Understood."

Green Lady’s eyes flash with something that appears likened unto primordial satisfaction, and Harley feels herself gush with wetness between her thighs. “Good girl.”

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you couldn't tell, i have no idea how long this fic is gonna end up being
> 
> also moscato is great you should try it


	7. honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You haven’t touched me, Miss,” Harley points out quietly before she can lose her nerve, cheeks flushed from something more than just the wine. “And you haven’t… haven’t had me touch _you_.”
> 
> “You mean, I haven’t forced myself on you.”
> 
> Harley pointedly lowers her gaze, shame coloring her cheeks. “… Yes, Miss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i ahvent forgotten bout this story i promise! took a bit of a break but
> 
> not a super long update but i just wanted to finish up this night between them and all that 
> 
> i definitely missed writing this though and hopefully i can get to starting another bit this weekend cause im off work!
> 
> also proofreading is for whiners but i will come back adn do it later... in the meantime definitely let me know if there are any super glaring errors ok?
> 
> ALSO*: do i suck at answering comments? YES. do i read them and live for them and do they inspire the absolute hell out of me to actually keep writing even if i don't think that i can? DOUBLE YES. so if you've been commenting or even left like one comment i just want you to know i'm in Love with you

**HARLEY**

It’s a couple hours (and another glass of chilled Moscato) later before Harley finally works up the nerve to ask, “Why are you doin’ all this, Miss?”

If Green Lady is at all irked by Harley’s bluntness, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she’s all sincere indulgence and immeasurable poise: leaning slightly forward in her chair to fix Harley with an appraising look, forearms rested on either of her knees.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, darling,” she remarks smartly, though there’s an unmistakable note of apology in her silken tone that Harley _hates_ herself for daring to think might be genuine. 

“You haven’t touched me, Miss,” Harley points out quietly before she can lose her nerve, cheeks flushed from something more than just the wine. “And you haven’t… haven’t had me touch _you_.”

“You mean, I haven’t forced myself on you.”

Harley pointedly lowers her gaze, shame coloring her cheeks. “… Yes, Miss.”

“Eyes on me, pretty girl.” Harley lifts her chin, repressing a full-bodied shudder as she meets Green Lady’s intent gaze. “I can understand that you have no reason to believe me when I tell you I won’t—that I _wouldn’t_. It… " Green Lady trails off in a rare show of speechlessness, her elegant expression hardening with resolve. “Simply the _thought_ of subjecting you to that is utterly reprehensible.”

Harley nods distractedly in answer, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. There’s something else about all this that’s bugging her, and heaven help her but she hasn’t the faintest fuckin’ _clue_ how to go about asking it. (Or if she even wants to.) “But you don’t, um… "

Green Lady doesn’t push as she trails off, just sits patiently in wait for Harley to gather her thoughts. (It’s as touching as it is confusing.)

“…. I just thought, you know, that… " Harley stammers out, feeling her cheeks flood with renewed heat under Green Lady’s unfaltering consideration. (She’s well aware she isn’t making a lick of sense right now, but being aware of it and being able to amend it are two entirely different things.) “… ‘cause what happened in the backroom…. "

“We kissed,” Green Lady supplies simply, lips quirking upwards at the edges. 

Harley nods jerkily at that. “But you haven’t touched me… "

“Oh, Harley,” Green Lady laments with something like fond exasperation (though there’s an undercurrent of acidity to her tone that practically screams 'danger’). A crease forms between her perfect brows that Harley aches to smooth away. “You think that because I haven’t forced myself on you, that I don’t _want_ you?”

Harley ducks her head bashfully, staring hard down at the snowy-white duvet as she feels her blush worsen tenfold. “Well, I…. “

“Eyes on me,” Green Lady reminds her, and Harley hastens to obey. “Good. I won’t remind you again, kitten. Is that understood?”

Harley flushes anew at the pet name (which is quickly becoming one of her all-time favorites), squirming to re-distribute her weight as a renewed gush of arousal threatens to stain the duvet beneath her. ( _God, that would be so fuckin’ embarrassing_, Harley bemoans herself.) “U-Understood, Miss.”

“ _Very_ good,” she purrs, and Harley has to bite her lower lip _hard_ to stifle a paltry whimper from escaping her. 

_She needs to get up off this bed, now._

“Um, I—Miss?” she squeaks timidly, cheeks flaming with sweet humiliation even as she struggles to hold Green Lady’s gaze. 

Green Lady’s slight grin widens, her gaze taking on a knowing and almost _cruel_ glint. “Yes, Harley dear?"

Harley shifts, feeling her cunt clench beneath the soaked-through crotch of her thong. “Can I, um… Am I allowed to get up? I… I-I think I’d like to stand.”

Green Lady simply quirks a brow. “And why is that?”

Harley clenches her jaw. “I… I’d just like to stand, is all. I-If that’s okay, Miss.”

Green Lady hums, _tsk_ ing like she’s disappointed. “You’re free to do whatever you like, love,” she answers graciously, though there’s a hint of disillusionment that lingers on her features. A split second later, Harley finds out why: “But I thought I told you not to lie to me.”

Harley, who up until this point had been just mid-way through scrambling off the side of the mattress, freezes on the spot. On hands and knees atop the duvet, lips parted with bafflement, cool air fanning over the flimsy scrap of wet fabric between her thighs in the most maddening of ways. 

_Fuck_. 

“I’m no mind-reader, but I do have a certain… knack for being able to tell when a person is lying,” Green Lady muses, waving a hand dismissively through the air as if it’s of little consequence to her. “Though, I’ll admit you’re rather adept at it. I’m impressed.”

Harley gulps, not daring to move. “I… " _What the hell_ , she thinks. “I’m wet, Miss. I… I didn’t want to stain your nice bedding.”

Something almost _predatory_ flits across Green Lady’s gaze as her knowing grin widens to reveal a perfect row of straight white teeth—a stark contrast to the juniper-green of her lips. 

“See—that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

At this rate, Harley fears her face is in danger of, quite literally, bursting into flames. “N-No, Miss.”

“So, now that that’s out in the open, I suppose we have some options,” Green Lady muses. “Tell me, Harley—what do you need right now?"

Harley blinks, her lower back beginning to ache from the effort of holding herself still. “W-What?”

“Well, every time I’ve offered you clothing to wear, you’ve politely declined—but the offer is still valid,” she offers without a moment’s hesitation. “If you’d like to run a bath, or have a shower, you’re more than welcome to.” She pauses then, smirking. “And if you’d like a moment alone to… _take care_ of yourself,” Harley’s eyes widen at the implication, “I’d be more than happy to accede. Just say the word, darling—whatever you need."

A sudden rush of daring fills her gut ( _About damn time_ , she thinks)—the kind that has her lips curving into a sultry smirk and her next words coming out drenched in a bawdy confidence she doesn’t quite feel: “I think I like the option three, Ma'am,” she drawls with a playful pout, "though I don’t quite see why it means you'll have to leave me all by my lonesome.”

Green Lady’s gaze turns from heated to smoldering, her jaw clenching tight—so tight it almost looks painful (at least, from where Harley’s sitting). “Think carefully about what you’re saying,” she warns, her tone cold and sharp like weathered steel. (Harley shudders in place.) “I don’t much like to be teased.”

Harley likes this. It’s easy—familiar. (And _hot_.) “It ain’t teasing if I deliver, though, right?” 

Green Lady’s eyes are dark—a shade of green so deep it looks almost black, even in the light. “Come here, kitten.”

Suppressing another full-bodied shiver, Harley crawls over to the side of the bed, then comes to stand beside it on weakened legs that feel like Jell-O. Green Lady’s sharp gaze threatens to burn straight through her as she makes a careful approach, then stops less than an arm’s length from the chair to face her head-on, a burning question on the tip of her tongue. 

“Ask,” Green Lady says simply.

Harley wonders briefly if she was lying earlier about not being a mind-reader. 

“I… I want to kneel for you,” she manages shyly, fighting the urge to shift from foot to foot under Green Lady’s reserved scrutiny. "Can— _May_ I? Miss?”

Green Lady chuckles, low and gentle, juniper-green lips curved into an indulgent smile as she lifts her chin to appraise Harley. “My, my. Such a polite and well-mannered kitten.” Harley flushes, feeling her cunt clench reflexively at the praise (and the pet name, because Jesus _Christ_ ). “Of course you can, beautiful.”

Her flush spreads to the tips of her ears as she drops demurely to a kneel between Green Lady’s spread legs—close enough that she could lean and nuzzle her cheek against one of her knees, if she so desired. (And she really, really did. Still, she wasn’t anywhere near crazy enough to act on such a juvenile and _desperate_ urge.)

“T-Thank you, Miss,” she murmurs, mindful to keep her gaze on Green Lady's.

“I should be thanking _you_ , Harley,” Green Lady counters swiftly, a note of sobriety entering her genial tone. "Submission in all its variant forms is a gift—nothing more, nothing less.”

Harley just blinks at that, not quite knowing what to say. 

Luckily, Green Lady saves her from having to form a coherent response. “Now, you were honest with me—I daresay I owe you some reciprocity on that front. Earlier, you were unsure about whether or not my interest in you is sincere. You asked why I hadn’t yet touched you, or requested that you touch me.”

Harley nods shallowly at that, cheeks aflame. 

“I’m going to tell you about the moments we shared in the nightclub—my thoughts, reactions, feelings. Is that alright with you?”

Harley blinks, slightly taken aback at being asked her opinion on the matter. Still, she’s nothing if not quick on her feet (in her line of work, she kind of _has_ to be), and she recovers quickly: “Y-Yes, Ma’am—of course.”

“When I first saw you, you were onstage—dancing.” ( _Pole dancing_, that mean voice in Harley’s voice supplements snidely. It sounds a heck of a lot like Mistah J’s.) “I couldn’t stop watching you. Your movements… they were effortless, almost _elegant_. Though, I know that seems a strange descriptor considering the circumstances.”

“Your makeup was thick and smeared, but it didn’t do a thing to hide the line of your jaw, or the delicate slope of your nose, or the way your eyes twinkled beneath the lights like you knew something everyone else in the room didn’t. And your body… " Green Lady lets out a long exhale at that, shaking her head with a self-deprecating grin. “I want so badly to say that I didn’t ogle you like some hare-brained pervert, but I did. I did, and I had half a mind to smack myself for it, especially knowing what I know now.”

_‘Knowing what I know now,’_ Harley repeats in her head (even as some dumb, giddy part of her can’t help but preen at the fact that Green Lady just outright admitted to ‘ _ogling_ ’ her at the nightclub). _What the heck does that mean?_

Her confusion must be splayed clear across her features, because Green Lady is quick to clarify. “Dancing onstage isn’t something you do by choice, is it?”

Harley’s immediate impulse (cultivated through years of cruelty at Mistah J’s hands) is to downplay it. “It ain’t so bad,” she shrugs. Green Lady gives her a pointed look, brows raised, and Harley heaves a quiet sigh. “But… no,” she admits. "No, it ain’t really a choice."

“Exactly.” Green Lady nods at that, a sad look in her gaze before continuing on: “And then… Well. Then, I took a seat opposite the Joker, and he called you over.” Her face hardens as she says that last part, green hands clenched into white-knuckled fists atop either knee. “He was pretentious. He treated you like property, and for that alone, I wanted to make him bleed.” 

"He introduced us, and you.. " she trails off, her expression softening into one that almost borders on reverence. Harley feels her chest flood with burgeoning warmth. “You blushed so prettily when you spoke to me for the very first time.” Harley squirms, clenching her thighs together. (It’ll be a miracle if she gets through this without dripping onto the carpet.) 

"You took me to a room near the back of the club. I told myself I wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t ask anything of you—but then you moved to kneel between my feet, all doe-eyed and earnest and _pliant_ , and my resolve broke. I told you to straddle me, sit on my lap. And later… later, I had you pinned up against the wall—kissing those beautiful lips, tasting heaven in your mouth like I had any right to it… to _you_. I owe you an apology for that.”

Harley vigorously shakes her head at that, silently begging Green Lady to see the truth in her eyes when she says, “I _wanted_ it, Miss. _All_ of it.”

“But even if you hadn’t wanted it, you’d have bent to my will regardless, yes?”

Harley bites her lower lip, brows furrowed. “… Yes, Miss.” _God, this honesty thing sucks_. 

“My actions… they robbed you of choice, and that was wrong of me,” she condemns herself reproachfully, and Harley is entirely at a loss. She doesn’t know what to feel, what to think; it’s all so foreign to her, this… apology. “I’m very sorry, Harley. I need you to know that. Okay?”

“I… Okay.”

Green Lady’s expression clears somewhat, though a trace of lingering guilt remains. “Now, that in mind—I’d like to ask you something, and I’d very much appreciate it if you answered honestly. Is that understood?”

Harley nods, grateful for this far simpler line of questioning. “Yes, Miss."

“Earlier, did you entertain the idea of putting on a show for me because you felt indebted to me, or because you genuinely wanted to?”

Harley’s breath catches in her throat. “I… That’s… No one’s ever asked me that before, Miss."

Something steely and almost _dangerous_ flits across her gaze, but it’s come and gone far too quickly for Harley to dwell on it for very long. “They should have.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, then, and Harley realizes (somewhat belatedly) that Green Lady is waiting for her to respond. 

She takes another second to gather her thoughts, hands fiddling anxiously in her lap. “And to answer your question, Miss, I… I don’t know.”

Green Lady nods, leaning forward with an unreadable expression on her regal features. (Harley feels her body tense in anticipation of… well, of _what_ , she doesn’t quite know, but history tells her it won’t be pretty. A backhanded blow to the face, a virulent slew of hateful words, a strong grip squeezing tightly around her throat until her world turns black.) 

“I give you my word that nothing will transpire between the two of us until you can tell me beyond of a shadow of a doubt that you _want_ it. Anything we do, we do together. Do you understand?”

… The word ‘astounded’ doesn’t even _begin_ to cover what Harley’s feeling right now.

Still, she manages a jerky nod. Her brain is a whirlwind—Green Lady’s gentle promises and Mistah J’s harsh words and a billion other hopelessly vast emotions she doesn’t dare try and name warring violently within her head, threatening to overwhelm her. 

Green Lady’s lips quirk into the ghost of a smile. “Thank you, kitten,” she praises, and Harley can’t help but _bask_ in it, that warm fuzzy sensation in her chest growing and growing and growing until all the rest of it is white noise in the background—utterly insignificant in comparison. “You’ve done very well." 

— — 

Dawn breaks across an indigo sky, streaks of watermelon-pink decorating the heavens, a molten amber-yellow sun peeking out over the cityscape horizon. 

They watch it together—Green Lady resting back against the sturdy trunk of an honest-to-God Japanese cherry blossom tree sprouting from the roof, Harley curled up in her arms. 

Her damp hair smells of spearmint and eucalyptus (because of course Green Lady’s shampoos would be made of… green stuff), and one of Green Lady’s oversized T-shirts swallows her tiny frame—pale green cotton stamped with an abstract depiction of a beautiful citrus tree, circular splotches of yellow hanging from every bough. The plaid green-and-grey boxer briefs sagging low on her hips are Green Lady’s, too. 

They smell like her—like pinewood and fresh berries and evergreen forests. Harley likes that.

What’s more, she can feel herself beginning to associate those particular scents ( _Green Lady’s_ scents) with warmth and peace and _security_ (strange and foreign as each concept may feel to her)—which is fucking terrifying, to say the least. Not to mention _stupid_.

She doesn’t get things like ‘warmth’ and ‘peace’ and ‘security.’ There’s a thick leather collar around her throat (complete with a silver ring for when Mistah J yanks her around on the leash) to remind her of that. (Funnily enough, she’d all but forgotten it until now.) 

There’s a lingering ache in her jaw and a familiar stinging between her thighs and violet handprint-shaped bruises above either hip to ensure that no matter how much time she spends forgetting curled up in strong jade-green arms beneath a pretty cherry blossom tree, it won’t last. 

Most of all, there’s grief in her bones and an ache spread all across her battered body and a gaping hole in her chest where Eli used to live. They make damn sure she can’t forget what a lifetime of weakness has taught her, what years of good intentions and bloodied fists and immeasurable _heartache_ have proven: that she isn’t made for sunrises, and nostalgia, and pretty girls with smooth green skin and fiery-red hair and gorgeous bright-green eyes that glitter like emeralds in the gentle light of breaking dawn. 

(She’s beginning to resent that with a vengeance.)

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so next chapter i'm tryna have:
> 
> a) ivy showing harley her magical plant voodoo
> 
> b) talking through more specifics of The Plan and preparing to go back to joker
> 
> & c) taking harley back to joker


	8. schemin' up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite suddenly, as if spurred by some invisible (and completely unexplainable) force, the little sapling begins to grow—up, up, up, sprouting shoots and leaves from its rapidly thickening stem and tan-colored roots that protrude from the small lump of soil in Green Lady’s palm like something Harley can’t even begin to try and explain… like _magic_. 
> 
> “Holy shit,” Harley breathes out with bulging eyes, lips parted in shock. “You just… "
> 
> “Plants… _respond_ to me, as best as I can explain it—ever since the experiments,” Green Lady explains calmly, though there’s a hint of nervousness in her luminous green-eyed gaze as she monitors Harley’s reaction—like she’s fearful of how Harley might perceive her in the wake of this newest revelation. “I can grow them in a matter of seconds, and if I concentrate hard enough, employ them to do my bidding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter's title is inpsired by a drake and ob o'brien song called schemin up.... yes i'm trash im sorry i grew up with two str8 brothers 
> 
> also i only sort of proofread this cause i was excited bout this chapter! plus this felt like a long one... i feel like a lotta shit happens here and i'm probably gonna need to update the tags
> 
> also ****** definitely dont get used to updates this soon though dsklfj i started this on like saturday cause i was off work this weekend
> 
> (and if you left a comment that i havent yet replied to on the last or any of hte other chapters, i hope you know that i am in love with you and they make my whole entire day and mean the absolute world to me<3 )

**HARLEY**

Just past seven sees Harley sitting at an elevated counter atop a barstool watching Green Lady cook breakfast in her _super_ nice kitchen (despite Harley’s half-hearted protests that she really, _really_ didn’t have to): scrambled eggs and sausage (beef, not pork) and _hash browns_ … _so_ many hash browns. 

(Harley wonders briefly if she’s died and gone to heaven—though she knows very well where she’s going once she bites the dust, and it damn sure ain’t heaven.)

Green Lady’s dressed in casual wear: a pair of pale green jogger sweats and a large grey cotton T-shirt bearing an assortment of cartoonish potted plants surrounding the words ‘PLANT DADDY’ emblazoned in bold black font across the chest. (It's silly, and whimsical, and so fucking _dorky_ —especially in comparison to the uber-fancy business-formal attire she’d donned just hours before. Harley loves it.)

She’s not sure if it’s the absurdity of Green Lady’s dress right now, or a direct byproduct of an entire night spent being treated like an equal rather than a sex toy, or maybe just good old-fashioned sleep deprivation finally catching up to her in the midst of this shitstorm. Either way, she’s feeling somewhat emboldened—enough so that she doesn’t see why _not_ to ask the one thing she’s been dying to know since their very first meeting in the club. 

“Hey, Miss?”

Green Lady doesn’t look up from the sizzling pan. “Yes, kitten?”

Harley feels herself flush at the pet name, and she has to resist the urge to squirm where she sits atop the barstool— _definitely_ her favorite. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Of course, Harley,” she reassures, glancing over her shoulder for a brief moment to flash Harley a reassuring look.

She swallows thickly, speculating the most polite to go about phrasing it even as the inquiry seems to _burn_ her tongue the longer she holds it back. In typical Harley fashion, though, she lasts about three seconds before blurting out, “Why is your skin green?” like an _idiot_. (Sometimes, she doesn’t quite know why she bothers.) 

She thinks it’s a miracle when Green Lady turns away from the stove to face her and the look on her face is indulgent rather than murderous. She looks almost… _amused_ , though Harley knows far better than to take that at face value. 

“I’m surprised it took you so long to ask, babydoll,” she banters wryly, sharp green eyes seeming to almost glow in the morning sunlight. 

Harley shrugs under Green Lady’s teasing consideration, a pink flush coloring her cheeks. “I’m freaky pale like a ghost, and it ain’t just a Jewish thing. I know I don’t much appreciate it when people I don’t know ask me why my skin’s so funny-lookin’. It’s none of their damn business.”

Quiet falls between them as Green Lady seems to inspect her (and Harley can’t do much but let her) for a long moment, a contemplative look in her eye. Eventually, she breaks into a smile, and Harley releases the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. 

“You’re quite right, darling. They aren’t entitled to an explanation for why your skin is chalk-white and mine is olive-green; it isn't their business to know in the first place. Still, I don’t mind it being yours.” She winks, then says, “One moment” as she turns to inspect the sausages cooking in the pan. 

A second later (apparently satisfied with their progress), she turns back to Harley with a slightly faraway look in her eye. “Some time ago, I was a college student. I’d always been fascinated by plant-life, so it was little surprise to anyone around me that I chose botany and toxicology as my specialties.” 

"One of my professors… " she trails off there, something unreadable flitting across her gaze. It looks remarkably akin to sadness, maybe even anger… or perhaps a combination of the two. “Jason Woodrue. He was a man of remarkable intellect; I’d found his thesis on instilling immunity to perennial toxicity in the human body to be fascinating, and went out of my way after the very first lecture to tell him as much.” 

"He was very kind when we first spoke—he humored all my questions, and even posed a few of his own for me to consider; it quickly became clear to me that he shared my passion for botany and toxicology in spades. Over a matter of months, we built a strong rapport. I often found myself staying long after-hours to discuss the finer points of his thesis further with him, along with conducting a couple extra-curricular experiments of my own under his close supervision.”

A quick over-the-shoulder glance at the stove seems to tell Green Lady the sausages are done. She moves the pan off the heat and cuts the burner in two swift movements before turning back to face Harley. 

There’s that saddened distance in her gaze again, a furrow in her brow, lips pressed thinly together. It’s more than enough to make Harley hate herself for asking to begin with. 

“Miss, I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have asked,” Harley begins, brows stitched together, pleading wordlessly for Green Lady to forgive her. “You don’t have to—"

“It’s quite alright, kitten,” Green Lady assures her with a gentle smile, though the sadness in her pretty green eyes lingers. “I _want_ to share this piece of myself with you.”

Harley bites her lip, still unconvinced (though she knows far better than to push). “Okay, Miss,” she concedes quietly. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Green Lady says, flashing Harley a warm and _genuine_ smile that brings more heat to her blushing cheeks. A split second later, it fades in favor of a thoughtful, almost somber expression, and Harley yearns to see that contented look once more. 

“Anyway, college-age me really respected Woodrue—looked up to him, even. And it wasn’t entirely unfounded, because he was a kind and gentle man up until the day he wasn’t. He… " Green Lady pauses, lips pursed in thought as if contemplating how best to go about verbalizing this next part. 

“He took advantage of me, kidnapped me, and began experimenting on me,” she states calmly— _too_ calmly, and quite suddenly, Harley finds that her stomach really ain’t in the mood for breakfast anymore. 

“After a particularly toxic injection of deadly nightshade spliced with his own handcrafted antiserum, I ended up in the hospital for just over six months. Woodrue fled long before I was coherent enough to give his name to the police, while I was left with a drastically changed physiology” she gestures vaguely up and down her fern-green body, "and… strange abilities.”

Harley swallows, her mouth suddenly feeling rather dry. “‘Abilities’?”

“You see that plant on the counter?” Green Lady asks, nodding to a mini lime-green sprout rooted in a small pot of darkened soil sitting a couple feet to Harley’s right. 

Harley furrows her brow but nods, looking curiously between Green Lady and the plant in question. 

“Hand it to me, will you?”

Confusion mounting rapidly in her chest, Harley does. 

Green Lady holds the pot in one hand, then carefully scoops out the mini sprout (roots and all) along with a handful of soil in the other. Setting the pot aside, she regards the drooping green weed in her palm coolly for a second before—

Hold on. Did the tiny little plant just _twitch_ ?

Harley squints at it. 

It gives another twitch. 

She squints at it a little harder. 

It wiggles—fuckin’ _wiggles_. 

What the—

Quite suddenly, as if spurred by some invisible (and completely unexplainable) force, the little sapling begins to grow—up, up, up, sprouting shoots and leaves from its rapidly thickening stem and tan-colored roots that protrude from the small lump of soil in Green Lady’s palm like something Harley can’t even begin to try and explain… like _magic_. 

“Holy shit,” Harley breathes out, lips parted in shock. “You just… "

“Plants… _respond_ to me, as best as I can explain it—ever since the experiments,” Green Lady explains calmly, though there’s a hint of nervousness in her gaze as she monitors Harley’s reaction—like she’s fearful of how Harley might perceive her in the wake of this newest revelation. “I can grow them in a matter of seconds, and if I concentrate hard enough, employ them to do my bidding.”

She falls silent, then (which Harley takes to mean she’s finished explaining for now), eyeing Harley cautiously with an inscrutable expression. 

Harley, for her part, is just wondering if it’s possible for her jaw to unhinge itself purely out of excitement and _awe_. 

“That is so cool!” she’s squealing shrilly before she can stop herself, practically bouncing in her seat with giddiness. “Oh, my God—you’re _amazing_ ! I mean, that probably don’t mean much comin’ from me, ‘cause I once bought a little mini cactus to keep me company back at the apartment and it was dead by the end of the month, but—Sorry, I’m ramblin', but ya just made that mini sprout thing grow in two seconds flat and I’m—that was so _cool_ !”

Green Lady cycles through a myriad of expressions as Harley babbles—trepidation, shock, confusion—but finally, she seems to settle on something like gratified relief: a genuine smile curving her lips, eyes alight with consummate warmth. 

“I’m glad you think so, kitten,” she remarks dryly, though a note of unease lingers in her silken tone. 

Harley nods along with that, feigning thoughtfulness (though she’s really preoccupied with thinking up a way to get that uneasy look out of Green Lady’s pretty eyes, _stat_ ). “D’ya think you could resurrect that little mini cactus I killed?”

Green Lady snorts at that—a genuine, entirely unladylike (not that Harley cares in the slightest) sound of joy that warms Harley from the inside out. “No, kitten, I’m afraid your mini cactus is too far gone,” she quips back, and the look on her regal features is warm, contented, devoid of any earlier misgivings. 

_Mission accomplished_ , Harley thinks smugly to herself even as she pouts for dramatic effect. “Phooey."

— — 

Breakfast is _amazing_. Green Lady is an incredible cook, and Harley makes it a point to tell her as much. (She brushes it off with an _adorable_ hint of bashfulness, citing that it’s “almost impossible” to mess up eggs and sausage and hash browns, but Harley ain’t fooled.)

Harley scarfs down everything on her plate in a matter of minutes even as Green Lady sips lazily at an Irish-green smoothie in a tall glass. Evidently she’s a fervid vegan, which seems rather on-the-nose, considering everything. (Not to mention impressive—Harley knows for damn sure she couldn’t survive life without meat, or milk chocolate, or _ice cream_.)

“So,” Green Lady begins, swirling her green smoothie languidly in one hand. “I don’t mean to ruin the mood in any sense, because it is a truly _wonderful_ mood,” she pauses, smirking, and Harley feels herself flush, "but I’d like us to talk about our… options from here on out.”

Harley frowns at that, dutifully sipping her water (because evidently Green Lady was very big on hydration). “Options?”

“I still plan to kill the Joker,” she states plainly like she’s discussing today's weather rather than murdering the most powerful man in Gotham, and just like that, all the air feels like it’s being sucked from Harley’s lungs. 

She swallows hard, setting her water aside as her stomach churns with nausea. (Suddenly, she regrets eating so much so quickly.) “… Right.”

“I could certainly use your help in this endeavor, but I won’t by any means require it of you,” Green Lady assures her, and Harley has the _insane_ urge to burst out laughing. “Helping you is my top priority—you and your child.”

Harley stills at that. “Eli?” she questions suspiciously, uncaring of the acerbity that enters her tone at the mention of him. “What do ya want with him?”

Green Lady says nothing for a moment, just inspects Harley with an unreadable look in her eye. “Nothing,” she answers eventually, taking her time to utter out each syllable as if choosing her words carefully. “But he is not safe in the Joker’s hands. He belongs with his mother.”

“And what would you gain from that?” Harley demands with an impudence she wouldn’t dare employ if the subject matter were literally anything else—but it’s not ‘anything else.' It’s Eli, the very center of her entire _fuckin’_ world, and she can more than justify mouthing off enough to take a beating (or two) for his sake.

Green Lady doesn’t miss a beat: “It would free you from the Joker’s control.”

“Ya didn’t answer the question,” Harley protests emphatically, willing herself to keep her tone even. “I asked you what _you’d_ gain.” 

Green Lady cocks her head to the side, fixing Harley with an expression that somehow manages to appear amused and wistful all in one. “Is it truly so hard for you to fathom that I might find your company enjoyable, and therefore seek an outcome that would allow for me to revel in it more often?”

Harley frowns, jaw clenched. “All due respect, Miss, but it’s _exactly_ that hard for me to fathom it. You’re powerful and wealthy and charming, and I’m—"

“I would think very carefully about your next words if I were you, kitten,” Green Lady admonishes curtly, a warning flashing in her gaze. “You remember our talk about debasing yourself, don’t you?”

Harley promptly gulps down every, ahem, _colorful_ descriptor she’d had in mind, feeling a pinkish flush heat her cheeks. “Y-Yes, Miss.”

Green Lady’s eyes spark with something like approval at Harley’s hasty show of docility, lips curling into the faintest trace of a smirk. (It sends a full-bodied shiver down Harley’s spine.) “And what did we agree upon?”

Harley feels her heated blush worsen tenfold. She feels like a scolded child sitting here: doing her very best to maintain eye contact, trying not to squirm, cheeks aflame beneath the crushing weight of her own misbehavior. 

“Not to do it, Miss,” she mumbles out sullenly. 

“Precisely. Very good, kitten,” Green Lady lauds, sounding pleased. “Now, let’s try this again, shall we?”

Harley maintains her silence, willing her full-fledged blush to recede. (It doesn’t.) After what feels like at least a solid minute of Green Lady just _looking_ at her rather than talking, brows raised, Harley realizes what she’s waiting for: verbal confirmation. 

“Y-Yes, Ma’am."

Green Lady winks at her—a subtle, _provocative_ gesture, and Harley knows she’s done the right thing. “You don’t have to trust me, Harley. I know better than to ask for something so tremendous.” She pauses, then, pursing her lips. “But, if you should agree to help me, no aspect of my design will be hidden from you. Whatever the monetary cost to have you alongside me for as long as I require to enact this plan, I will pay it.”

“That’s… " Harley trails off, forgetting her earlier frustration entirely in favor of complete and utter awe at the fuckin’ _bonkers_ intention she’s proposing. “I can’t ask you to do that, Miss. That’s… That’s so much money… I don’t—"

“You wouldn’t be asking,” Green Lady counters smoothly. “I’m offering.”

“I… Jesus,” Harley breathes out, struggling to wrap her brain around what’s happening right now—the sheer enormity of what they’re discussing, what it could _mean_ for her (and _Eli_ ). “How long are you thinkin' this plan of yours'll take?”

Green Lady shrugs, sipping noncommittally at her uber-healthy green drink. “Three days? A week, at most,” she confirms after a moment’s thought. “It all depends on how long it takes us to find your child and any others he may be detaining. Once they’re safe, I’ll be free to move on the Joker.”

“And you’re gonna… kill him,” Harley finishes numbly, a billion indescribable emotions churning viciously in her chest. 

“Yes,” Green Lady agrees, watching Harley with an almost apprehensive expression. “If all goes well.”

Harley nods shallowly; when she finally speaks after a long and tense pause, it’s like she’s hearing herself from miles away—tinny and distorted… _distant_. “Okay.” She doesn’t sound like herself. Hell, she doesn’t _feel_ like herself, but somehow she knows that the answer she’s giving here is hers and hers alone—raw and vulnerable and honest as it gets, even if the burn of it is like acid on her tongue. “I’m in.”

_Please don’t make me regret this, Miss_.

— — 

“ _Please_ , Miss.”

“No.”

Harley pointedly fights the urge to stomp her feet in frustration. “Miss, he-he’ll be _suspicious_ if I don’t show up with any marks—"

“I am _not_ laying a harmful hand on you, kitten,” Green Lady growls, dominance seeping from every facet of her tone. Were it any other situation, that alone would have Harley folding to her will in a _snap_ , collapsing like a flimsy house of cards… But, this ain’t any other situation. 

Harley will be _damned_ if she throws her hat (and by extension, Eli’s) into the proverbial ring for this cuckoo-crazy plan to kill Mistah J, only to have it wrecked before they can even begin all because Green Lady won’t woman up and smack her around a little bit. (Or a lot.)

“Miss, ya don’t _understand_. He’ll check me for marks, have me tell him the stories behind the more painful ones; it’s a game he likes to play,” Harley prattles out (wincing internally as her words make Green Lady visibly fume with anger), desperately trying to make her see _sense_. “And, as of right now, I don’t have any for him to _see_ !”

“You’re asking me to… " Green Lady trails off, her voice trembling with rage, green hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, “to _hurt_ you, after I expressly vowed to _protect_ you.”

“This _is_ protecting me, Miss, even if it don’t feel like it,” Harley insists staunchly, refusing to waver. “This way, Mistah J doesn’t get suspicious. This way, he’ll let you buy me again. He… " She pauses, gathering her nerve and willing her voice not to tremble. Sharing this won’t be easy for her, and it sure as hell won’t be easy on Green Lady to hear, but it’s _important_. _This_ is important, and Green Lady needs to know that. 

"He _likes_ to send me off to the especially cruel ones—hell, even gives ‘em _discounts_ sometimes,” she says evenly, hating the candor in her words, the acrid way it tastes on her tongue—not like unto that of a lie, but rather, something far worse: a vulgar truth. "He never looks _twice_ when I come back covered in bruises, but he don’t trust a person that treats me well—someone without a dark side. Do you get it now?”

“This is insane,” Green Lady whispers, sounding utterly _defeated_ in a way that cuts Harley straight to her core. “I don’t… "

“Hey, it’s okay,” Harley assures her, stepping into Green Lady’s space and feeling her own heart _break_ for the glassy look in her pretty green eyes. 

Her movements are slow, deliberate so as not to startle her. She takes one of Green Lady’s clenched fists in her hands, smiles gently at the way it immediately loosens in her palms. 

Then, she’s bringing it up to curl around her throat just a hair beneath her jawline and a smidgen aloft the thick black leather of her collar. She presses Green Lady’s palm against her own windpipe, employing enough pressure to hinder the air flow without cutting it off completely, and leans willfully into it with the best reassuring grin she can manage. 

“It’s… _okay_ … Miss,” she gasps out breathlessly, smiling broadly with what little energy remains when she feels Green Lady’s grip tighten of its own accord. Satisfied, Harley lets her hands fall limply to her sides while a hand she _almost_ trusts squeezes a painful bruise into her throat, heat quickly rushing to her face, her head going all fuzzy from oxygen deprivation. “I… want ya… to.”

The last things she can recall: A red-rimmed pair of blindingly beautiful green eyes. Wet tears streaking down kelly-green cheekbones cut from glass. A tear-choked (a-ha, she made a pun) voice that sounds sorta familiar whispering something like “Please forgive me, kitten”… 

(Her final thoughts?

A. _God, this hurts_. 

and, B. _It’s only round one… the real pain will come soon enough_.)

Then it all goes black. 

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't be mad at me for this


	9. two-faced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How you been, Harvey?” Harley asks once he’s finished pouring and offers her a glass (which she graciously accepts), careful to enunciate her words all clear and concise—no trace of that 'trashy’ (Mistah J’s words) Gotham born-and-bred accent she’d begun to let slip with Green Lady mere hours before. 
> 
> She watches him down the vodka (a little less than two shots’ worth) in a single gulp even as she cautiously sips her own. (The burn is pleasant on her tongue, she finds. Grounding.)
> 
> “Stressed,” he growls out eventually, gruff and short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter doesnt have much ivy but it's ya know plot stuff and further harley characterization etc
> 
> [HARVEY DENT](https://batman.fandom.com/wiki/Two-Face_\(Nolanverse\)) (aka TWO-FACE) here is based off of aaron eckhart's portrayal of him in _the dark knight_ 'cause i think he fuckin eats that shit up (also the movie itself is fye) ... plus, he was the one who said "you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain" and that line goes hard as hell
> 
> *additional note: in this 'verse, harvey is not disfigured. rather, he earns the name of "two-face" through his notably mercurial temperament
> 
> and ⚠️⚠️⚠️ big big Big Trigger Warning here kids ⚠️⚠️⚠️ it doesn't go into super huge detail but it's definitely brutal so uhm please just dont read if you think it has even the faintest potentiality to trigger you cause thats really not what we're tryna do here

**HARLEY**

They spend about an hour in total battering Harley’s body into submission—and at her own behest, no less… Talk about there being a first time for everything, huh?

She only passes out twice (including the very first time with Green Lady’s palm crushing her windpipe), which she thinks is pretty damn good considering the _significantly_ condensed timeline they’re working with here: One hour for gettin’ the absolute _cheese_ beaten outta her, a couple more to let the bruising settle into brilliant violet and indigo hues on her ghost-pale skin, then back to Mistah J in time to get “inspected” well before her weekly 2:00pm with ole’ Two-Face. 

It also doesn’t help that, as it turns out, Green Lady really hasn’t been fronting all this time about havin’ a conscience—truly some Jiminy-Cricket-level _bullshit_. 

Don’t get Harley wrong here. Under any other circumstance, she’d be heaving a massive sigh of relief (internally, of course) upon realizing that. 

But as it is, they don’t have _time_ for good intentions and moral compasses and Jimmy Cricket bullshit. Harley just needs a very painful, very _visible_ ass-whoopin’, like, _yesterday_. 

She doesn’t have _time_ for “talking things through” (Harley can’t remember the last time she ever did that) or coming up with a “safe word” (whatever the hell _that’s_ supposed to be) or “checking in” after every hit (a “traffic light system”?! What in the actual goddamned—).

Still, it ain’t like she can DIY bleeding bite marks all up and down her throat or someone else’s noticeably larger hands bruising her upper thighs or overlapping red stripes all up and down her back from the harsh bite of a leather belt (plus a couple bleeding nicks from the buckle). 

There are a couple things she _can_ do on her own, however, and once it’s become abundantly clear to Green Lady’s plants and God and _everybody_ that it’s hurting her more than she can say to make Harley bleed… well, Harley womans the fuck up and does it herself:

Fingers down her throat (no throwin’ up, though, since the breakfast she just had is probably the only real meal she’ll be getting till Green Lady buys her again). It’ll do well to make her voice even raspier than it was post-chokehold. 

Dried spit across her tits. A series of hard slaps against her left cheek (‘cause Green Lady’s right-handed) that’ll bruise within the hour. 

Blood (taken from her split lip) streaked generously along her inner thighs. 

Numerous coats of thick mascara (courtesy of a stony-silent Green Lady) soaking her lashes. It stains her reddened cheeks just _marvelously_ every time she makes herself cry. 

And, look—logically, she knows that complaining about the fact that Green Lady won’t beat bruises into her skin is… well, it ain’t fair. It ain’t fair of her to act like Green Lady’s the bad guy for not jumping at the opportunity to hit her like she stole somethin' with no concern for her comfort or safety. 

She knows that, okay? 

But it’s just… Look. She can’t play therapist _and_ punching bag at the same time. 

Sure, she’s good at multi-tasking (better than most), but she ain’t _that_ good. 

During the first parts, she could manage it: arching _into_ the pain rather than away like she wasn’t hurtin'; flashing a crooked grin up at Green Lady even directly on the heels of every blood-curdling scream that tore its way through her battered windpipe like a thousand knives dipped in acid; telling her “It’s okay, Miss” over and over and _over_ again like a broken _fuckin’_ record even as she felt herself drenching her own cheeks in tears. 

But once it started to hurt—like, really, well and truly _hurt_ … well. It was a hell of a lot harder to be so willfully brave, then. 

By the end of it, she's crying— _sobbing_ into Green Lady’s dorky-as-hell 'PLANT DADDY’ T-shirt while curled up in her warm lap like a _fucking_ child, damn near hyperventilating with the overwhelming _pain_ of it. 

Which is… unusual, to say the very least, ‘cause this—the trembling, the sobbing, the gasping for air through heaving lungs—this part, she does alone. She _always_ does this part alone—typically in the wee hours of morning when Mistah J has finally gone to sleep and the hole in her chest where Eli used to live aches a hundred times worse than anything else she’s ever known and there’s no one around to see her shatter beneath the fucking _boundless_ measure of her own heartbreak. 

Either way, she manages to regain control of herself and caps the emotional… _episode_ off at what she estimates to be the ten-minute mark (give or take a couple minutes). It’s 12:09pm, according to the slim gold-plated watch on Green Lady’s wrist… which means one thing and one thing only: time for Harley to go back. 

(She really, _really_ doesn’t want to.

But then again—when has that ever made a fuckin’ difference?)

— — 

The 45-minute ride back is long. Quiet. 

(Green Lady protests vehemently when Harley tries to tell her she has to go alone, that Mistah J will be suspicious if Green Lady is caught looking like someone who cares enough to escort the Joker’s _whore_ back safe and sound. 

Still, Green Lady’s opposition on that particular front dies out pretty damn quick once Harley offers up the only other plausible alternative: they ride back together, and Green Lady acts out a compelling show of cold-blooded sadism upon Harley as Mistah J watches… because what other reason would she have for taking the time to ride back with her—time that an important person like Green Lady could just as easily spend doing literally anything else—other than to prolong the Rent-A-Whore’s torment, right?

Green Lady visibly flinches at the mere prospect, and Harley knows she’s won the round.)

She recognizes the middle-aged white guy with grey hair and bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows sitting behind the wheel—Green Lady’s same driver from the ride over. 

He wasn’t particularly chatty then, and he isn’t now. Though, at the moment, Harley can’t help but find that more comforting than anything else. 

She’s a big talker, sure (or at least, she used to be)—but not with an older man she doesn’t trust, and _certainly_ not considering the state she’s in. 

Cool gusts of well-conditioned air ghosting across her battered skin makes her shudder upon the expensive black-leather upholstery. A traitorous thought enters her stream of consciousness before she can think to stop it: that she wishes she could have Green Lady’s warm blazer draped over her shoulders, or—even _better_ , that oversized T-shirt that was so soft against her skin. 

“Shut up,” she angrily hisses to herself, trembling fists clenched tightly in her lap.

(If Driver Man thinks anything at all about his sole passenger talking to herself in the backseat of his expensive car, he doesn’t let on.)

The rest of the way, she busies herself with taking a mental inventory of her bodily damage:

Her left cheek, swollen and sore and red all over from hitting herself hard enough to draw tears. 

Bright-pink impact marks (with blue-ish bruising beginning to show beneath the irritated skin) all up and down her back, plus a couple scabbed-over marks where the belt buckle landed hard enough to bleed. 

Bleeding bite marks around her throat, all up and down her back. 

A swollen puncture wound (unmistakably from a medicinal-grade syringe) rimmed with irritated pinkish skin at the base of her neck. Evidently, Green Lady’s saliva is poisonous. _Deathly_ poisonous. (Her touch, too, after prolonged exposure.)

According to Green Lady, the only reason she’d survived their five-minute make-out sesh in the nightclub backroom was by way of a potent anti-toxin injected into Green Lady’s bloodstream a couple hours beforehand—the kind that would kill her in a larger dose, but instead simply worked to temporarily neutralize her body’s natural toxins for a short time.

Apparently, injecting herself with the anti-toxin was something of a routine before any outing that would bring her in direct contact with humans.

(It also caused her a great deal of pain to weather the anti-toxin’s effects, as Harley had discovered after a solid five minutes of intense probing. 

So, Harley politely refused Green Lady’s offer to brew up another dose of anti-toxin to keep her alive while she got her ass beat, particularly as another round of doubly-intense probing revealed an alternative solution:

An antidote Green Lady had concocted just hours ago as Harley slept, steeped with Harley’s mortal genetic make-up in mind—one that would render her immune to Green Lady’s natural bodily toxins. 

Predictably, Green Lady had fervently objected, insisting she’d created the elixir solely as a contingency to be utilized should Harley choose of her own free will to be involved with her in the future. 

It took some time, but Harley wore her down… eventually.)

Ahem. Where was she? 

Right! Inventory: 

A painful split in her lower lip that she knows very well will rip right back open the moment she utters a sentence longer than three words. 

Black mascara streaking obscenely down either ghost-pale cheek. 

Smears of dried blood crusted over a matching pair of sickening purplish-green handprints along her inner thighs.

A thick ring of reddened markings from a heavy-handed chokehold encircling her neck (with purplish bruises blooming beneath the skin). 

Similar lurid-pink imprints around either ankle and wrist, beads of dried blood speckled across various areas where her reinforced binds (made of stinging nettle) rubbed straight through the skin. Evidently, the stems of stinging nettle (covered in these stinging hairs tipped with formic acid and other irritants) inject an acid into the skin, making for some less-than-savory symptoms around the affected areas: burning, stinging, _itching_.

Harley has half a mind to scratch at every ring of burning sensation around her limbs, tear the harshly-chafed skin with bloodied nails—regardless of how profusely she’s wont to bleed. (It’s only Green Lady’s earnest assurances echoing throughout her mind—that the nagging sensation will recede within 24 hours or less—which prevail at keeping her in check.) 

All in all, the assortment of injuries paints a fairly convincing picture, though she knows better than to think it’ll be enough. 

No, she’s gotta _sell_ this… and she plans to.

— — 

Two-Face is called Two-Face for a reason (though Harley’s pretty sure she’s the only one who calls him that). One second he’s Harvey Dent, highly-decorated defense attorney with neatly-trimmed hair and a charming white-toothed grin and blue eyes that sparkle like ocean waves beneath the afternoon sun… and the next, he’s something else. Some _one_ else, rather. 

His eyes go all cold, his boyish grin turns into a pained grimace, his touch becomes bruising rather than gentle. 

(There’s a not-so-small part of Harley—the ex-psychologist ex-Doctor-Quinzel part—that finds his dual personality rather fascinating, even when it hurts.)

In her head, she calls him— _that_ side of him—Mistah H. Not terribly creative, she knows, but he’s the only one that possesses a similar kind of manic unpredictability unto that of Mistah J’s, and thus she thinks it fitting to call that side of him something congruous. 

Anyways, her weekly sessions almost always see her dealin’ with good ole’ Mistah H—today’s is no exception. 

She thinks that the sessions are one of the only times Mistah H can come out to play without any real consequence, ‘cause Harvey keeps him on a pretty tight leash everywhere else. Being the most famous defense attorney in Gotham means life in the public eye, which means little room (if any at all) for slipping, which means Mistah H doesn’t get out much. (Which means Mistah H is always even more angry and embittered than he would be to begin with, which means bad fucking news for Harley.)

She always meets him at his fancy mansion out near the suburbs. Mistah J bought her a super expensive outfit just for her weekly meetings with Two-Face, ‘cause if anyone asks (and they have in the past), Harvey just tells the camera that the lady he sees every Tuesday at 2:00pm on the dot is his therapist… and therapists don’t dress like cheap whores. 

So, she always dons this fancy Balenciaga trench coat and a shawl to cover her dip-dyed hair, shiny black heels with red bottoms and a pair of big designer shades to obscure most of her face from view. Plus, she carries a big purse (stuffed with files and scribbled-on papers) to make her look important, and she only ever stays 90 minutes (at most)… which is probably already pushing it, considering the therapeutic hour is exactly 50 minutes, but whatever. 

Harley never does the asking. It ain’t her job, anyhow. 

Anyways, it’s all the same today. 

She’s a little battered, a bit more bruised than usual—but the rest of it is all the same: fancy getup (with cherry-red lipstick and a generous spritz of rich-person perfume), hitch a ride with one of Mistah J’s many high-level goons (usually Louie if she can find him, ‘cause he’s the nicest), get there with at least a couple minutes to spare and knock twice upon the shiny agarwood door.

Harvey himself will come to let her in (rather than the live-in maid, a lovely middle-aged lady by the name of Céleste), because it ain’t a secret that Harley comes to his swanky mansion every Tuesday for 90 minutes like clockwork, but what goes down as soon as they’re behind closed doors… well, that part definitely is. 

No, Céleste gets sent home early on Tuesdays (her only day of the week off), and Harley finds herself left alone in Two-Face’s enormous three-storied mansion… well alone, that is, save for Harvey Dent himself and his significantly less-personable counterpart, Mistah H. 

He looks nice today, Harley notes (which he always does)—if not a little (or a lot) on-edge:

Perfectly-pressed baby blue dress shirt tucked into grey slacks (held up with a shiny belt around his trim waist)—all William Fioravanti, of course, with red tie around his neck and polished brown loafers laced tightly up on either (big-ass) foot. 

The scent of him is subtle, elegant—juniper berries and patchouli (his favorite cologne).

(Harley can’t help wishing he smelled more like fresh berries, like pinewood and evergreen forests. Like _Green Lady_.

She forcibly shoves that thought out of her head before she can dwell on it for too long.)

“Miss Quinzel,” he greets, flashing her a warm smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes—almost instantly she knows who she’s talking to: Harvey Dent. Gotham’s white knight; champion of the criminally accused; king in the court room. “Please, come in.”

She does, ducking her head bashfully and giving that shy little-girl smile she knows he likes. Gives him her coat when he asks for it, accepts his offer of a drink (which she usually declines) because she knows she can’t do this sober. She knows she can’t even play pretend at being his with the memory of Green Lady’s touch and praise and _bite_ burning painfully over every inch of her flesh like a new tattoo—a _brand_ on her skin which stipulates that Harley is _hers_ , that she can’t belong to anyone else, that this is _wrong_. 

He returns with two sparkling glass tumblers and a bottle of Grey Goose in hand, pours a half-glass into each with a steady hand. 

“How you been, Harvey?” Harley asks once he’s finished pouring and offers her a glass (which she graciously accepts), careful to enunciate her words all clear and concise—no trace of that 'trashy’ (Mistah J’s words) Gotham born-and-bred accent she’d begun to let slip with Green Lady mere hours before. 

She watches him down the vodka (a little less than two shots’ worth) in a single gulp even as she cautiously sips her own. (The burn is pleasant on her tongue, she finds. Grounding.)

“Stressed,” he growls out eventually, gruff and short. 

_Well, hello there, Mistah H_ , she thinks grimly to herself. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He grins wolfishly as he sets his glass aside, something cold and unquestionably _dangerous_ flashing in rapidly darkening eyes of cobalt-blue. 

“Yes, indeed,” he muses with a chuckle that ghosts across Harley’s skin like a knife’s edge, large fingers already beginning to fiddle with the shiny silver belt buckle at his waist. (Harley resists the urge to shudder—and _not_ in the good way. ) “Now get on your _fucking_ knees, you worthless slut.”

— — 

Mistah J is the very picture of madness as Louie and AJ (another member of his inner circle) manhandle her into place just across from him in one of the numerous circular nightclub booths. His green hair is frizzy and wild, slick with too much gel; dried blood spatters his ghost-pale complexion (the way it does when he blows someone’s brains out at close-range); blood dribbles down his chin from between red-painted lips, his pointy tongue flickering out intermittently as if to taste it. 

“Harley!” he greets with a flourish (though he has to borderline yell to make himself heard over the thumping bass of trashy EDM blaring loudly all around), coal-black eyes alight with manic excitement and a curious kind of glee at the sight of her (though Harley knows far better than to believe it means anything less than trouble where she’s concerned). “You look positively debauched, my dear.”

Harley clenches her jaw, feigning a pleasantly neutral expression even as she feels Two-Face’s ejaculate seeping its way out of her sore cunt, soaking straight though the crotch of her panties. “Thank you, Mistah J.”

His manic grin widens, a thumb coming up to smear the thick rivulets of blood dribbling down his chin. “And! It would seem you’ve garnered something of a suitor.” _Green Lady_ , Harley’s brain supplies hopefully even as she chides herself for being so ridiculously transparent. 

“Miss Pamela Isley—" _Doctor_ , Harley mentally corrects him, “—has purchased your company through the weekend.” 

Harley feels her heart skip a beat at that even as Mistah J lets loose a truly _brainsick_ cackle, spewing droplets of blood onto the drink-littered table before him. (The sound of it chills her to the bone.) 

"I knew those whorish lips were good for _something_ ,” he chortles, clearly relishing this opportunity to further degrade her. (Not that it’s anything new, of course.) “You’re going to ask her to fuck you in the ass, Harley girl. I want her to make you _cry_ because it’s so rough and it’s hurting you so bad—will you do that for me? For your daddy?”

It’s almost amusing that he even bothers giving her the illusion of a choice. _Almost_. 

“Anythin' for you, Puddin’,” she acquiesces sweetly, allowing a slight purse of her lips (to ensure he thinks her repulsed) even as her thighs clench beneath the table of their own accord at the thought of Green Lady taking her _there_ —all whispered praise and firm hands pulling her bruised cheeks apart and that deliciously painful stretch threatening to split her in two—

“My obedient little cum whore,” he sighs out with mock reverence even as one pale hand disappears off the tabletop to not-so-subtly massage his own crotch, a glazed-over look that Harley recognizes all too well entering his gaze. “Now, let’s put that mouth to good use, hm? Miss Isley’s driver will be here within the hour.”

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... i am very sorry but she gets to see ivy next chapter! so that's nice!


	10. nothing but trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon arrival, they exchange a pleasantry or two, and Ivy is pleasantly surprised when Harley sees fit to poke a little fun at her (more or less unprompted). 
> 
> Then Harley is stripping herself quickly, efficiently (not that she’s wearing all that much to begin with)—and all too soon, the cogent revulsion and _anger_ Ivy harbors in spades for anyone and everyone that had ever seen fit to lay a harmful hand upon Harley Quinn comes rushing back to the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay someone mentioned a little while back that they'd like to see some ivy pov and honestly i didnt know if i'd be able to fit it in but i actually like the idea so here's a chapter with like 20% harley pov and the rest is all ivy
> 
> let me know if there are any super glaring mistakes? i havent really done a super thorough proofread of this yet
> 
> (also i'm absolute mcfreaking garbage at keeping up with responding to comments becuase i can never seem to think of an even semi-coherent response to people being so nice in my inbox but rest assured i read ALL of them and they mean so much more to me than words can say so if you left any comments on this ever, this is me requesting your hand in marriage🥺)

**HARLEY**

Driver Man picks her up at 5:00 on the dot. 

Outside, it's gloomy and grey (as it always is), but there’s a bit of color to be found amidst overcast skies—a splash of auspicious yellow here, a streak of burning crimson there. 

(Harley hates herself for thinking it might be an omen, an assurance of changing tides—a promise of something better.)

He doesn’t get out when she nears the curb, doesn’t flash her a smile or a wave or any outward sign of even marginally fond recognition, doesn’t make a single move to open the door like Green Lady probably would. Though, really Harley doesn’t expect him to. (She thinks it’d be awkward if he did.)

Instead, it’s quiet as she clambers inside without bothering to hide a wince as the movement jostles her injuries. There’s only silence as they peel smoothly away from the curb, and Harley is grateful for it. 

She doesn’t feel _whole_ right now: the acrid taste of Mistah J’s too-salty cum staining her tongue, another man’s stale ejaculate soaking its way through her panties, a million stinging hurts plaguing her overburdened body that feel more like deserved retribution than unwarranted abuse.

Still, she’s alone in an expensive black car with Driver Man (who thus far has given absolutely no indication that he desires even the barest degree of companionship from the likes of her). She’s currently on her way to a pretty, polite lady with green skin and greener eyes and a touch that’s inexplicably gentle on her battered skin despite a hundred reasons it doesn’t have to be. 

Things could certainly be worse. 

— — 

“Miss, may I please have a shower?” is the first thing she says once they’re together, the words she’d practiced repeatedly on the ride over falling from her lips with a practiced (read: feigned) ease that vividly betrays the potent uneasiness roiling unpleasantly in her gut. 

Green Lady watches her carefully—likely inspecting the fresh angry reddened marks upon her skin, the haunted look upon her worn-out features, the stiff and uncomfortable way she holds herself in the wake of violent use. 

“Of course, darling girl,” she grants eventually, though she sounds troubled (to say the very least). "You never have to ask.”

“And, um… " Harley trails off, mentally debating whether or not to say— “Will you help me? Miss?”

(Her chronic inability to adequately filter herself is going to get her killed one of these days—of that much, she’s certain.)

Green Lady’s florid green eyes narrow, an unreadable expression upon her angular features, and Harley struggles to hold her gaze. “Are you sure?”

Harley swallows thickly, then gives a jerky nod. “Y-Yes, Miss. I… _Please_.”

Green Lady’s hardened expression immediately softens. “Very well, kitten. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

— — 

Green Lady’s grand suite bathroom is much like the rest of the utterly extravagant penthouse—a magnificent blend of wealth-evident minimalism and flourishing greenery. 

A sizable bathtub sunken into a rectangular block of gleaming ivory porcelain in one corner (Harley thinks briefly that those are the kind called ‘enamel tubs’); a mega-fancy shower space just beside it composed of polished grey granite and equipped with multiple shiny silver shower heads, lime-green vinery peeking through the mortar-filled cracks. 

Two his-and-hers sinks carved into a large rectangular slab of Italian marble, resting atop a substantial growth of snow-white four-petalled blossoms on sturdy wooden boughs. 

Twin oval-shaped mirrors held in place by a twisting amalgamation of leafy-green vinery just above either sink. 

Across from the vanity—one of them classy East Asian toilets, all its little buttons labeled with Japanese characters. 

“Woah,” Harley mutters her breath, jaw slack and eyes wide with wonder. “This is… Woah.”

Green Lady chuckles from beside her. “You showered here just last night, kitten.”

“I was a little tipsy.”

“Fair enough,” Green Lady concedes. “Now, guide me through what you’d like to do here.”

Harley blinks, more than a little confused by the question. “Hm?”

“I know you requested a shower, kitten, but are you feeling up to it? Would you prefer a bath instead?” Green Lady turns an entirely non-judgmental gaze upon her, brow creased, green hands tucked comfortably into the pockets of her grey sweats. “Are you still comfortable with my presence here?”

_Jesus_. Harley fights the inane urge to snicker. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

— — 

**IVY**

Harley returns in a bra-and-thong set of lacey white lingerie that would likely have her drooling on sight under literally any other circumstance. But as it is, she (Harley, that is) is covered with dozens of fresh cuts and angry-looking marks: reddened handprints and mottled bruising and a profoundly noticeable stiffness to her posture. 

To make matters even more dire, the first thing out of Harley's mouth is a far too politely-worded appeal for a shower. It’s perhaps something Ivy might have considered progress, what with it being the very first time she’d been bold enough to ask for something, were it not for the utterly _beaten_ nature of the young woman’s countenance as she did so. She’d been meek and painfully timid as if dreading a swift punishment in response. _Expecting_ one, even. 

Of course, Ivy cedes her request. After all, what else is there for her to do?

Harley leaves her clear six-inch heels by the foot of the bridge at Ivy’s behest, and Ivy keeps pace with her stride for stride as they near the bathroom. She’s learned rather quickly over the course of their time together that positioning herself at Harley’s unprotected back was a surefire way to render her upset (whether the younger woman would admit it or not). 

Upon arrival, they exchange a pleasantry or two, and Ivy is pleasantly surprised when Harley sees fit to poke a little fun at her (more or less unprompted). 

Then Harley is stripping herself quickly, efficiently (not that she’s wearing all that much to begin with). All too soon, the cogent revulsion and _anger_ Ivy harbors in spades for anyone and everyone that had ever seen fit to lay a harmful hand upon Harley Quinn comes flooding back to the surface. 

Her hands curl into white-knuckled fists in her pockets, her jaw clenches tightly enough to border on painful, her heartbeat thuds deafeningly in her ears. It’s been a decade (at least) since she’s felt this measure of untapped rage pooling low in her gut, the kind that burns like liquid fire beneath her skin and claws deliriously at the tattered edges of her admittedly limited self-restraint and urges her to lash out voraciously at those responsible until there’s nothing (and _no one_ ) left for her to punish. 

The world seems to stop for Ivy. Time slows—and still, Harley continues undressing herself as if entirely unbothered. 

The cups of her lacey white brassiere fall away to reveal perky ( _perfect_ ) breasts topped with pert dusky-pink nipples, lined generously with ruby-red impact marks (12 in all, if Ivy had to guess) criss-crossing over either ample swell of once ghostly-pale flesh.

The thong comes off next, its crotch soaked through with a nauseating blend of milky-white ejaculate and scarlet-red blood. The fluids smear themselves generously along Harley’s bruised inner thighs as she shimmies them down tattoo-covered legs, and Ivy feels a bit like hitting someone (preferably the Joker). 

Instead, she busies herself with starting up the shower—not too hot, not too cold… not too high on the water pressure. From the way Harley’s standing, Ivy fears a particularly strong gust of wind could topple her over given the chance.

“Okay, I think this should be good, but feel free to adjust the temperature as you see fit,” Ivy tells her in a flat voice that she can only pray does well enough to hide how unthinkably _furious_ she is on Harley’s behalf. “Just rinse off for as long as you’d like, and I’ll start on preparing your bath. Does that sound okay, little one?”

“You worry too much,” Harley teases again, her voice gravelly with hurt. Still, there’s an unmistakable note of vulnerability in her next words: “That sounds perfect, Miss.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

Focusing on drawing a eucalyptus-spearmint-scented bubble bath turns out to be… challenging. Her hand shakes as she pours the syrupy mint-green solution into steaming-hot water; and, all the while, Harley’s pained whimpers fill the silence. 

She thinks she loses track of time, then (and maybe pours a little too much bubble bath soap in the water while she’s at it). It seems like only half a second later that a dripping pale hand lands gently upon her shoulder and a hoarse voice tentatively says, “Miss?”

Ivy swallows thickly, setting the bottle aside and rising to her feet. “Your bath is ready.”

“What’s wrong, Miss?”

Ivy’s resolve falters at the doe-eyed curiosity splayed plainly across Harley’s features. “You don’t deserve this brutality, kitten,” she manages eventually, willing herself to keep her gaze fixed upon Harley’s face rather than straying further downwards. “You never have.”

Harley shrugs, the ghost of a self-deprecating grin curving her still-bleeding lips. (It’s simultaneously the most beautiful and tragic thing Ivy’s ever seen.) “It’s nothing I ain’t used to, Ma’am.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” she argues back, acerbity lacing her embittered tone. 

“Hate to break it to ya, Miss, but it ain’t about what’s ‘right,’” Harley counters, somehow managing to sound amused and doleful all at once. “At least, not for me. For me, it’s about surviving, and making sure Eli does, too. That’s all.”

“And what about you? What about what _you_ want?” Ivy questions, knowing she might sound peevish but ultimately uncaring, her sudsy hands clenching themselves into white-knuckled fists at her sides. 

Harley gives another noncommittal shrug. “I can’t afford to think about that, Miss.”

“And after?”

She frowns. “After what?”

“After you’re free.”

“‘Free’?” Harley’s bruised lips twitch, taunting something dangerously reminiscent of a smile. (They look rather ambrosial right now, even beneath the harsh artificial light overhead—full and pouty, a violent wine-red split marring her lower lip.) “I can’t afford to think about that, either, Miss.”

“Why not?”

“Hope is a dangerous thing,” Harley recites, perfunctory and almost _mechanical_ —like a mantra, a chant, something she’s reiterated to herself a thousand times before.

Ivy feels a crease forming between her brows. “Perhaps… Though I’d like to think it’s worth the trouble anyhow.” She doesn’t add ‘ _that you’re worth the trouble_’ like she so desperately wants to, but the urge is there all the same. 

“You know, Miss—there is a such thing as _too much_ trouble,” Harley counters, a knowing (and almost _teasing_ ) glint in her eye. 

“But that’s not for you to decide, though, is it?”

They’ve dropped all pretense now. Ivy can see it in the way Harley’s bloodied lower lip trembles, the mirth that fades all too rapidly from her motley features in favor of a doleful vapidity that cleaves its way straight to Ivy’s very core without a trace of gentility, gutting her from the inside out like a jagged blade. 

“I’m nothing but trouble, Miss,” Harley whispers out eventually, glassy gaze lowering from Ivy’s face down to her throat like she’s ashamed. “I don’t know how to make ya _get_ that.”

She’s not sure what possesses her, but she steps forth until their bodies are flush against one another—faces a hair’s breadth apart, Harley’s damp skin steadfastly soaking its way through Ivy's T-shirt and joggers. 

It takes everything she has not to growl at the feeling: Harley’s pert pebbled nipples pressed against her, her lithe body racked with shivers, full lips slightly parted, flush and crimson and _begging_ for Ivy’s kiss. 

She lifts her hand, grips Harley’s chin—grazes Harley’s swollen lower lip with her thumb (though taking care to avoid the bleeding split). “I get it just fine, kitten. Do you?"

Harley’s breath audibly hitches. Her pupils dilate until only the thinnest sliver of green remains, and Ivy knows she has her.

“I do, I… P- _Please_ , Miss.”

“‘Please' what? Use your words.”

“I… "

Ivy smirks. She presses the pad of her thumb a little harder into the mulberry-purple bruising mottling Harley's lower lip and is rewarded a second later when she lets loose a quiet whimper. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I want you, Miss. I know I ain’t supposed to, but I—"

“And why aren’t you 'supposed to,’ angel?”

Harley’s cheeks, already splotched with darling hues of pink, glow a lustrous crimson. Though whether it’s at the term of endearment or the subject matter (or a combination of the two), Ivy doesn’t know. “Mista— _Joker_ says it’s better that I don’t, Miss.”

“And why is that?” Her inflection is cooler this time—barbed with acid. (She derives no pleasure in the way it makes Harley’s slender body tremble against her own.)

“‘Cause then that _really_ makes me a—" Harley stops herself there with a sharp intake of breath, clearly recalling Ivy’s rather pronounced dislike for self-degradation, “… a _you-know-what_ , Miss.”

She withdraws her thumb from Harley’s glossy lower lip, though keeps her hold on the woman’s bruised chin steady. 

Gaze narrowed, she makes sure to look Harley directly in the eye when she says, “Tell me, Harley. If I told you that I want you, that being in your mere presence excites me beyond words can say, that it’s taking everything within me not to pin you against the nearest wall and stretch out that pretty pink cunt of yours until you scream… would you think me depraved? Perverted? _Whoreish_ ?”

Harley’s reactions are like filmic art laid bare—shock, arousal, awe, and (last but not least) righteous consternation. Here one second, and gone the next (though the last one lingers in the furrow between her well-manicured brows and the legitimately troubled pout to her punished lips). 

(Ivy watches them all with rapt diligence, drinks in each and every detail like a woman starved, cataloguing and storing them somewhere far back in her thoughts where no one else will ever reach.)

“N-No, Miss, _never_ ,” Harley negates hastily, sounding by all accounts rather out of breath. 

“Good. Then I expect you’ll hold yourself in the same regard. Is that understood?” 

Harley gives a jerky nod, swallowing thickly. (Ivy watches the bob of her bruised throat just over the thick leather of her collar with morbid fascination. It’s inexorably spellbinding—because when it comes to Harley, she’s learned that just about everything is—even as she feels her stomach churn coarsely at the knowledge that _she’s_ the one responsible for the sickening purple tinge to her once-pale skin.)

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I… I understand, Miss.”

“Good girl,” Ivy praises gently, releasing Harley’s chin and allowing her hand to fall limply at her side. (Harley inhales a shuddering breath, and Ivy aches to take it from her.) “Now, hop in the bath before it gets cold. Would you like me to go or stay?” 

Harley’s crimson flush deepens. “S-Stay, please… if that’s alright, Ma'am.”

Ivy smiles. “Of course.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really have no clue how long this is gonna end up being ....


	11. pick up the phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she murmurs quietly, anxiety curling in her chest. “C'mon, pick up, _please_ —”
> 
> “Whoever this is, you’ve got exactly 10 seconds to give me one good reason to stay on the line or I’m hanging up the phone.”
> 
> Harley feels herself huff out a breathless laugh despite herself. It strains her bruised throat like a bitch. “Damn, Kitty. Claws away, alright? It’s just me.”
> 
> “Harley?”
> 
> Or: Harley and Ivy talk a little bit. Also, we make a little bit of headway on the Plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poppin back in, still a piece of garbage, you know the drill... also online college is kicking my ass and the world is a mess and i Cannot Sleep so things have been a bit (a lot) of a mess lately
> 
> also is the title of this chapter from 'pick up the phone' from birds in the trap sing mcknight by travis scott? i mean... maybe.... 
> 
> look okay i'm sorry i grew up with two str8 brothers i've been brainwashed with almost exclusively rap and hip hop from a very young age 
> 
> this is kinda a filler chapter, setting stuff up, u know how it be
> 
>   
> [SELINA KYLE](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catwoman) (aka CATWOMAN) is written with mainly [camren bicondova's portrayal](https://gotham.fandom.com/wiki/Selina_Kyle) of her from _gotham (tv)_ in mind (an aged-up version, as she's relatively young in the show), but also hints of [anne hathaway's portrayal](https://batman.fandom.com/wiki/The_Cat_\(Nolanverse\)) of her from _the dark knight rises_ as well

**HARLEY**

The bathwater smells incredible—eucalyptus spearmint peppered with hints of Green Lady: fresh berries and pinewood and evergreens in the forest. There’s a good four inches (~10 cm) of foamy bubbles atop the water, frothy white foam colored with the faintest tinge of crocodile green, and Harley… well. Harley is quite positive she's never seen something so magnificent in her entire life. 

Slipping into it is like hell—a thousand knives dipped in poison, tearing at every inch of her battered skin, reviving the acrid memory behind every bleeding cut with a startling clarity that slices her right to the bone. 

Still, it is something truly heaven-sent all the same. 

The water is that perfect temperature between hot and warm (though it favors the former). The bubbles are like fluffy clouds as she cups them in her hands, forms them into sloppy shapes before they pop, blows them off her palms over the lip of the tub only to see them fall short of their intended target (Green Lady, of course) sitting just feet away with an amused expression. 

“Enjoying yourself, are we?” she asks, and while the query itself is snide, the delivery is anything but. Her tone is gentle and knowing… _safe_. 

“It’s been a long time since I had a bubble bath, Miss.”

“You can have one every night you’re here, if you’d like.”

Harley feels herself smile. “Just one is more than enough for me, Miss.”

“Well, you’ll have to let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” Harley says with a cheeky grin, like it’s a joke. (It isn’t.)

Green Lady hums pensively. “Where did you grow up, Harley?”

Harley blinks at the abrupt change in topic but takes it in stride. “Gotham born and raised, Miss. I’m boring like that.” The beginnings of a frown curve Green Lady’s lips, and Harley hurries to shift the attention. "Can I ask where _you_ grew up?”

“You never have to ask permission, sweetling,” Green Lady assures her, like the perfect chivalrous gentle-woman she is. (Harley aches to believe her.) “I grew up in Washington state, just outside Seattle.”

“Ooh! The Needle!”

Green Lady chuckles, twinkling green eyes looking down on Harley with a truly intoxicating measure of warmth. “Yes, the Space Needle is easily the most sought-after attraction there.”

“Have you ever been?”

Green Lady nods. “Many times.”

“That’s so cool,” Harley sighs dreamily. “I wish Gotham had somethin’ like that.”

“Well, that’s what planes are for.”

Harley frowns up at her. “Huh?”

“If I’m not mistaken, Seattle is no more than three or four hours from here by plane—the blink of an eye, really, in the grand scheme of things.”

Harley feels her shoulders tense at that, but fights not to let her discomfort show. “I’m not much one for travelin’, Miss.”

“Because of the Joker?” Green Lady asks evenly without missing a beat, a single brow raised. 

Harley feels something unpleasant twist in her stomach. “Maybe,” she admits quietly, head bowed, pale cheeks flushed. She doesn’t think she can handle looking Green Lady in the eye right now. “It’s been years since I left Gotham without him."

“Well, I suppose we’ll see if we can’t change that, hm?”

At the note of profound gentleness in her tone, Harley chances a glance upwards.

Green Lady’s jaw is set and her eyes are eerily calm, trained on Harley with a kind of quiet sincerity that cuts straight to her core like a hot blade through melting butter. 

There’s a lot she isn’t saying, but it hits Harley like a sack of fucking bricks all the same—the unspoken promise Green Lady’s been repeating like a broken record since the night they met: that she'll go after the Joker, that she’ll fight for Harley’s freedom… that she’ll fight for _Harley_ , period. 

This time, Harley’s can’t quite stop herself from believing that it might just be true. 

— — 

Harley tucks her feet beneath her legs, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “So, you wanna poison him."

Green Lady’s lips quirk upward at her lackluster tone. “Yes.”

“And you wanna do it personally.”

“Yes.”

“By yourself.”

“Mm.”

“To his face.”

“That’s correct.”

Harley squints over at her. “ _Please_ tell me this is your own shitty way of tryin' to make a joke.”

Green Lady’s rebuttal is swift, curt. “Watch your tongue, kitten.” Her measured tone is a warning all its own, and Harley feels herself shudder in place where she sits cross-legged atop the couch cushions. “I’ve been remarkably lenient up until now, but even the patience of a saint can run dry.”

Harley tilts her head slightly, watching Green Lady with renewed interest even as she feels a powerful blush warm her cheeks. “Are you the saint in this scenario, Ma’am?”

Green Lady’s lips curve into a smirk, and she leans back in her seat (a plush green armchair sitting just opposite the sofa) as if mollified. (Harley would be a fool to take it at face value.) “In only the loosest sense, darling girl.” 

“So ya ain’t religious or anything?” Green Lady cocks a single brow, bemused and warning all in one, and Harley hastens to tack on a “Ma’am” to the tail end of her query. 

“My parents certainly liked to fancy themselves Christians,” she muses dryly, the corner of her lip twitching to form a bitter smile. 

Harley doesn’t return it, just sits quietly in wait. 

“Though it’s quite incredible how promptly the good grace of a God-fearing Christian expires when their only daughter returns home a freak of nature.” Distance settles in her gaze, and every word is detached; tragically devoid of feeling. “‘God has forsaken you,’ my mother said. She was crying. And my father… well, the way he’d tell it, God had forsaken me long before I stumbled my way into Woodrue’s septic orbit… Probably right around the time I first came out to them at the tender age of 12.”

“That’s early, Miss,” Harley comments weakly, unsure of what else to say. 

She’s familiar with tragedy, of course; to some extent, she’ll admit there’s grown some level of comfort to be found in it as the years pass and Eli gets older and nothing ever seems to change for the better. It’s a cold comfort, admittedly, but it’s a comfort nonetheless, and Harley will take them where she can. 

Still, it’s vastly different when the tragedy is not her own. It’s different when she’s not the one ripping herself open and tearing her own guts out for a world that never gave a fuck about her to begin with. It’s troublesome to be the one bearing witness rather than the train wreck everyone's gawking at. 

It’s both familiar to her and not, and she isn’t quite sure what to do in the wake of that realization. Sure, it makes her a little better equipped than most, as she knows enough to avoid offering up pretty-faced platitudes and hollow words of comfort as if they’ll fix the sordid brokenness that cleaves the both of them at their very cores. (They won’t.) But regardless, she’s unprepared.

Green Lady’s face is stony, her eyes awash in bitter melancholy, and the weight of what she’s said hangs heavy between them like rainclouds. 

Bracing all the while for a retaliatory blow, Harley slips off the edge of the sofa, crosses the short distance between them, and climbs into Green Lady’s lap. 

Green Lady’s body is rigid beneath her own as Harley wordlessly straddles her hips, looping both arms loosely around her neck. 

“Harley,” Green Lady utters, a question clear in her measured tone. 

Harley leans in until Green Lady's forehead rests against her own, squirming for a moment or two to get comfortable. She makes damn sure to hold her unreadable gaze (even if it makes her a little cross-eyed in the process) when she whispers, “Your parents sound like mega assholes.”

She looks taken aback for a moment before a small (but genuine) smile curves her dark green lips and she’s huffing out a breathless chuckle. “They were.” Her hands come up to rest gently on Harley’s hips. 

“Do ya miss them?”

Green Lady pauses, hesitating for the briefest of moments. “Sometimes."

“It ain’t a bad thing, Ma’am—missin’ them,” Harley assures her gently, though she didn’t ask. 

“Perhaps someday I’ll believe that, sweet girl.”

“Don’t worry,” Harley chirps, leaning a little further in to nuzzle Green Lady’s nose playfully with her own. “I’ll keep remindin’ ya."

Green Lady chuckles roughly at that, her thumbs tracing circles into Harley’s hips through the thin fabric of her tee. “I would love nothing more.”

— — 

Harley shyly asks if she can borrow a phone, and Green Lady acquiesces without hesitance. She takes out her personal phone—a sleek, black device with a spotless touch screen—and thumbs the home button to unlock it, then hands it over. And, after gently informing Harley that the passcode is ‘1128,' she even gets up and leaves the room to give her privacy despite Harley’s weak insistence that she _really_ doesn’t have to. 

Her background is a gorgeous photo of the cherry blossom tree on the rooftop at sunrise (or sunset—it’s not like Harley can tell the difference). It’s a little pinker than the breaking dawn they witnessed together on that very first night, the orange-ish hues a little more vibrant. But beautiful. Still beautiful. 

Harley keys in a number she knows by heart, tucks her knees up to her chest while she listens to the dial tone with bated breath. 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she murmurs quietly, anxiety curling in her chest. “C'mon, pick up, _please_ —”

“Whoever this is, you’ve got exactly 10 seconds to give me one good reason to stay on the line or I’m hanging up the phone.”

Harley feels herself huff out a breathless laugh despite herself. It strains her bruised throat like a bitch. “Damn, Kitty. Claws away, alright? It’s just me.”

“Harley?”

“What, is there some other broad I don’t know about callin’ ya ‘Kitty’ when I ain’t around?”

She can practically hear Selina rolling her eyes over the phone. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“But you love me,” Harley counters jokingly (though it comes out sounding far more uncertain than she’d like). 

Selina—bless her—seems to sense this. “That I do, Harls,” she reassures her in an uncharacteristic show of mildness. Harley feels the fist of anxiety in her chest unfurl, warmth seeping into her lungs. God, how she's missed this. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

— — 

**IVY**

She leaves Harley in the living room and retreats off toward the kitchen, a small list of self-assigned chores already forming in her restless mind. 

First, delegating a good 40% of her active concentration over toward the small _Cicuta_ perennial blossoming in a brick-red planter pot on the rooftop. It’s become more subconscious than anything else—growing the leaves and shoots and vines that oftentimes feel more a part of her than her own flesh and blood, even from afar. Still, this one is particularly important (even if Ivy would argue they all are). 

This plant will bring about the Joker’s demise—a swift and painful one at that, provided all goes according to plan.

Second—research. Her laptop sits atop the counter, and she pries it open with careful hands. Meanwhile, a vine snakes down from the ceiling, cheap burner phone in tow. It presses the compact device gently into her awaiting palm, and Pam very nearly finds herself murmuring out a “Thank you” before she remembers that the vines are merely extensions of herself—inanimate, non-sentient extensions of herself, at that. 

She types ‘gotham the joker club owner’ into the Google search bar with one hand while the other flips open the phone. She taps the ‘Enter’ key and watches a wealth of less-than-savory search results in underlined blue font load onto a new page (1 of 33, she finds after a quick scroll to the very bottom). Her thoughts race as she scans each one, tabbing open those that look the most important (read: alarming). 

Her thumb taps anxiously at the burner phone’s keypad as her mind works, mentally arranging the numerous calls she’ll need to be making over the next hour in order of most to least important. 

A stifled giggle carrying over from the next room briefly draws her attention—a sound of pure unadulterated joy from an individual with every reason in the world to be anything _but_ joyful. It warms Ivy from the inside out.

She could get used to this. 

🜃 🜃 🜃

It gets late all too quickly, and before Ivy knows it, it’s half past midnight. 

She’s accustomed to getting little sleep herself, often turning in around 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning and waking promptly at 6:30 like clockwork… but she knows that it’s the farthest thing from healthy. Not to mention—her capacity for minimal amounts of rest is something inhuman, a behavioral pattern she observed only after Woodrue’s cursed experiments. 

The hand-crafted serum Ivy injected her with aside, Harley is still very much human. Perhaps slightly less so than before (something she presumes they’ll be needing to have a conversation about sometime in the near future); and yet, the fact remains that Harley requires a great deal more everyday maintenance than Ivy herself. Food, rest, etc. 

Not to mention, she’s injured. That makes each and every one of those amenities doubly important, at least.

And besides… Busying herself with taking care of Harley distracts (at least somewhat) from the crushing guilt that weighs heavily upon her shoulders, knowing she’s one of the sole causes for Harley’s battered state. 

It’s not much, but it’s something, and at this point, Ivy will take what she can get… even if every shift and pained whimper Harley inadvertently lets out while she sleeps is more than enough to have Ivy’s gut boiling over with a murderous rage that threatens to consume her, body and soul. 

She wonders if she would mind, at this point, letting the white-hot fury she feels swallow her whole. 

It’d certainly hurt a hell of a lot less than _this_.

🜃 🜃 🜃

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you thought? it's been a hot minute and i'm still trying to flesh out the details of what's gonna happen as we continue along here...


	12. moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley lets out a slow breath, deciding to just bite the proverbial bullet. “Green L— _Pamela_ wants to kill Mistah J. Like, actually kill him.”
> 
> Silence on the other end (though it only lasts a solid half of a second) before, “Well, it’s about time. Would she like an accomplice?”
> 
> “Kittyyyy,” Harley whines. “I’m being serious.”
> 
> “I am, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter is named 'moves' because they're makin moves.... u know how cardi says 'i don't gotta dance / i make money moves' in ... is it bodak yellow? maybe? so moves like that causee they're... moves..... u get it
> 
> let me know if there are errors because i haven't edited but i also haven't started my russian hw that's due in *checks watch* 8.5 hours so

**HARLEY**

“So you’re still with Pamela Isley, then?”

Harley curls her feet up under her, nodding before she remembers that Selina can’t see her. “Yea. Her place is… _crazy_ nice.”

“I’d imagine it is,” Selina agrees, sounding bored. “Her net worth is somewhere in the hundred millions.”

“Oh. Ya know her or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Selina hedges neatly. 

“Kitty,” Harley admonishes. “Tell me ya didn’t spy on her.”

“I vet all your ‘clients,’” Selina says dismissively with a disdainful emphasis on the word ‘clients.’ “I know your _Puddin’_ certainly wouldn’t bother doing it himself.” 

Harley ducks her head bashfully at the jab even as warmth blooms in her chest. “I appreciate that, ‘Lina.”

“You’d better, ‘cause I’m pretty awesome.” Harley rolls her eyes affectionately. She can practically _see_ the haughty smirk Selina’s wearing right about now. “So, what’s she like?”

“She’s… nice. I’m—”

“She’d better be,” Selina mutters, a clear warning in her tone. “Or I’ll make her disappear."

“Ya gotta stop threatenin’ Mistah J’s clients, Kitty.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Yeah… ” Harley sighs. “Anyways, she’s kinda every guy and gal’s wet dream—all elegant and poised; ya know the type. Super into trees and plants and stuff like that.”

“You can say _that_ again. She donates tens of thousands of dollars to various die-hard environmentalist groups all throughout the States on a monthly basis.”

“Selina,” Harley admonishes again, using her full name this time to let her know she means business. (Not that Selina ever listens either way.) “Ya hacked her finances, too?”

“Obviously,” Selina states. “That’s where a good 70% of shady shit goes down.”

“I think she’s a good person, ‘Lina.”

“Well, I know that _now_.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Harley snorts, but leaves it alone. After a beat or two of quiet, she does a quick sweep of her surroundings to ensure Green Lady isn’t around to hear her say, “Are you alone right now?”

“Yeah.” There’s a hint of suspicion in her lowered tone. “Why?”

Harley lets out a slow breath, deciding to just bite the proverbial bullet. “Green L— _Pamela_ wants to kill Mistah J. Like, actually kill him.”

Silence on the other end (though it only lasts a solid half of a second) before, “Well, it’s about time. Would she like an accomplice?”

“Kittyyyy,” Harley whines. “I’m being serious.”

“I am, too.”

“What if he kills her?”

“The way things have been going, it’s a miracle he hasn’t killed _you_.”

“What about Eli?”

“We get him out,” Selina says simply. She makes it sound so _easy_. 

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“It’s probably better that I don’t tell you,” Selina replies blandly. Wonderful—cryptic as ever. 

“Pam offered to help with that, too. Eli, I mean. Evidently she’s got a plan.” 

“Well, why didn’t you lead with that? We can pool our efforts.”

“Selina.”

“You know what, you’re right. Isley’s still an unknown variable,” Selina muses pensively. "I’ll fly solo on this one. We both know I work better alone, anyways.”

“That sounds dangerous.” Before Selina can object, she adds, “For _Eli_.”

“It’s dangerous how he’s living _now_.”

Harley bites her lip. She can’t argue that. 

“When’s she going through with the hit?” 

Harley shrugs, an anxious feeling curling in her chest. “Less than a week from now, I think.”

“Damn. You can’t be any more specific than that?”

“Not yet.”

“Pity,” Selina laments, though she doesn’t truly sound all that vexed. “No matter. I’ll figure something out.”

Harley sighs. “I can’t talk ya outta this, can I?”

“Nope.”

Harley nods, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’d expected as much. “Just… be careful, 'kay?”

“Always. You too, babygirl."

— — 

**SELINA**

She doesn’t comment on it, but Harley’s voice sounds significantly perkier over the phone than Selina is used to. 

It’s wonderful to hear, of course, but almost cautionary, too. 

She’s spent… what, three days with this Dr. Pamela Isley? Less? 

Selina loves Harley to death, but her obsessive personality has a nasty habit of getting her into serious trouble. Case in point: the Joker. 

Selina remembers the first couple years of their relationship, the beginning of her pregnancy with Eli. She endured a litany of less-than-reassuring reassurances from a manically happy Harley every time she tried to broach the subject of her beloved _Puddin’_ , and learned quite early on that Harley (for all her schooling and wits) had the tendency to be unapologetically blind (and deaf, apparently) when it came to the Joker. 

It wasn’t until the third year, wherein which Eli turned two, that things fell apart. Harley spent the night passed out on Selina’s front stoop (though she didn’t know it at the time) with two broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a shivering Eli sleeping fitfully in her arms. Selina didn’t find her ’til the morning, and the sight she stumbled upon around 10:00am is one she doubts she’ll be forgetting so long as she lives. 

Harley was passed out, even paler than usual (which was certainly saying something)—almost corpse-like, really. She laid facing Selina, her body curved strategically so as to nest Eli neatly in between the door and her sprawled limbs—no chance of the little one wandering off, that way. (At least, not without rousing her.)

Her ratty grey T-shirt was soaked through with blood, and there was a metal straw protruding from her chest just above the neckline. (Selina would later discover she’d stabbed it into her chest _by herself_ in order to relieve excess air from her chest cavity, which helped with her collapsed lung… somehow. Whatever. Selina didn’t go to med school, alright?)

Eli was bundled up in his favorite blanket—a yellow one with little cartoonish ducks on it. It was stained in a few places with blood (Harley’s), but otherwise, it looked to be in pretty decent shape. 

Selina cancelled all her plans for that day in a heartbeat, texted for Bruce to swing by, and had him whisk them to the nearest hospital. 

And so it continued—month after month, year after year. 

By the time Eli turned four, even a love-blind Harley couldn’t maintain her deluded state of mind any longer. 

Selina’s just glad she saw sense before the Joker could (to her knowledge) ever hurt Eli—well, beyond the neglectful tendencies and blatant lack of accountability, that is. 

Point being: Harley doesn’t need another heartbreak, especially not right now. 

She’ll have to keep an eye on Pamela Isley from here on out. Anyone who plots to kill a man of the Joker’s caliber is either dangerous or insane, and Selina has no love for either.

Her timing is fortuitous, however… provided she does truly intend to follow through with her audacious plan to kill the Joker. 

It’s the perfect disturbance—whether it proves successful or not—that would allow for Selina to locate and secure Eli without sparking a major conflict in the Gotham underground. (Or getting herself killed, though she tries not to think about that too much.)

Selina sighs and sets her wine glass aside, thoughts racing. A quick glance at the stovetop tells her it’s 11:51—almost midnight. 

Late, though she doesn’t plan on sleeping. 

She has some calls to make, a kid to find, and a certain knife-hurling villain's late-night fight club to attend. 

/// /// /// 

**HARLEY**

Harley awakens slowly, star-fished face-down on a surface that feels more cloud than mattress, the scent of buttermilk tickling her nostrils. She lets out a quiet groan into the bedsheets, every muscle in her body stiff and hurting. 

Her bones weigh heavy like lead, there’s a pounding in her skull that might just border on ‘concussion’ territory, and that sensitive place between her thighs _stings_ like an open wound. 

It’s the morning after the storm, and Harley knows that this is just about the worst it’ll get—pain-wise. It’s always the morning after that hurts the worst, bleeds into the day, and finally dulls to a lesser (but still very much painful) throb at night. The next day will be better; the day after that, even better. Harley’s been through it enough times to know that this isn’t even a fraction of as bad as it can get. 

Still, it hits her like a fucking freight train all the same. 

Maybe it’s the stark contrast of the literal cloud she spent all night sleeping on, or the scent wafting all around that smells suspiciously like pancakes (her _favorite_ ), or the way it seems like Green Lady’s been spoiling her for absolutely no good reason ever since the very first night they met. 

Either way, it’s hitting her in tidal waves of agonizing sensation that make her body go rigid beneath its torturous onslaught. 

Green Lady let her shower last night—even drew her a bath with a whole bunch of bubbles. 

And yet, Harley feels dirty. Used. 

The sheets are laden with Green Lady’s forest-y scent. Harley burrows her face in them and inhales generously in a last-ditch effort to blur the edges of her anguish. 

It takes the edge off (a bit), but there’s that all-too-familiar soreness between her legs and the phantom sensation of warm fluids leaking from her sex—a sickening combination of blood, semen, and the small amount of natural lubricant her body managed to provide in an effort to minimize lasting damage. It’s not there anymore, of course, long since washed down the gleaming silver drain of Green Lady’s fancy-ass shower… and yet, the phantom awareness of it remains. 

Moving to push herself up from bed seems to strain every muscle to the point of breaking and tearing it anew. It sends shocks of dizzying pain coursing throughout her body, but with each jolt comes a hint of relief on its heels… the kind that comes from stretching sore muscles after hours of inactivity. 

It almost makes her nostalgic for her collegiate gymnast days—the sharp pain of overuse, the pleasant burn of a good stretch… miscellaneous aches and pains thrumming throughout her body at any given moment like they belong there. (After a while, it kind of started to feel like they did.)

It’s almost funny, that that hasn’t changed. It’s been years since she hit the floor, did a choreographed honest-to-God _routine_ in front of flashing lights and solemn-faced judges and hordes of hushed spectators—and yet, her bones still ache with the weight of something far beyond her years. 

She supposes it’s comforting, albeit in a morbid sort of way. 

Slipping off the bed and onto her feet is a challenge. She’s quick on her feet, sure, but she’s still dinged up pretty good, and that makes the whole thing a hell of a lot more difficult. The flats of her feet against the lacquered hardwood feel hundreds of miles away as she sways, blackness clouding her vision. 

She thrusts out her arms, windmills them around a little bit—manages a tired (but ultimately proud) grin when she finally stills herself in place. 

Next, she takes stock of her clothes situation.

Simple black lace panties and an oversized V-neck tee made of super soft cotton that feels like heaven against her bruised skin. Both Green Lady’s, both super mega comfy. The same thing she was wearing when she fell asleep last night. 

Still, she knows that that doesn’t mean much. There’s no real way for her to check if Green Lady got handsy with her while she was knocked out (which is really what the whole 'taking stock’ thing is for in the first place); and yet, she’s conflicted to note that it doesn’t much bother her either way. 

Not because she thinks that something happened—but rather, because she’s almost certain nothing did. 

She makes a mental note to start being more skeptical when it comes to Green Lady. 

— — 

**IVY**

Ivy will admit that the fragrant smell of buttermilk pancakes sizzling on the griddle isn’t entirely unpleasant. She has no intention of eating them, of course, but it’s a somewhat intriguing revelation to have all the same. 

She'd ordered a bottle of Maple syrup, as well—some big-name company from the state of Vermont claiming to be the most popular brand for over ten years running, or… something to that effect. 

Ivy couldn’t care less, really; she just hopes Harley finds it suitable. 

It’s something like half past 10:00 by the time a yawning Harley pads her way into the kitchen—late, but not unexpected in any sense. 

What she hadn’t expected, however, is the utterly precious sight she makes (bruised and battered as she may be)—bleary-eyed and bare-faced; wearing only a thin T-shirt of Ivy’s, a skimpy pair of black lace panties, and nothing else. 

A pair of pert, pebbled nipples poke through the sheer grey fabric; the low V-cut of the tee is damn near falling off one shoulder, baring the hollow of her left collarbone. Ivy can just make out the words ‘Daddy's lil Monster’ tattooed in looping cursive ink above the drooping neckline. 

Ivy imagines the body art is likely an accolade to her beloved Joker, which makes a torrid spark of acidic jealousy flare in her gut. It shouldn’t be there, she knows. She shouldn’t be jealous. She has no right to be, because Harley is not hers to claim—not _anyone’s_ to claim. But it’s there just the same, bitter and hot, refusing to be ignored. 

“Um… Miss?” Harley’s uncertain voice yanks her back to the present. 

She’s standing there, one hip braced against the granite countertop, an adorable expression of confusion on her pretty features. 

“Did I do somethin’ wrong?” she questions hesitantly. 

That jolts Ivy into a response. “No, kitten, of course not,” she assures her, doing her very best to inject some modicum of authority into her tone. She’s rewarded by the beginnings of a pinkish blush dusting Harley’s bleach-white cheeks, a slight widening of those pretty blue eyes as they take her in. “You just… You look rather lovely, is all.”

Harley blinks owlishly, cheeks reddening. “Uh….” She bashfully ducks her head, begins shifting from foot to foot in place—all the while dutifully avoiding eye contact. “That’s, um… T-Thanks, Miss, that—that’s real nice of you to say.”

“I mean it.”

Harley visibly tenses at that. “O-Okay."

Ivy frowns. “Look at me, Harley.”

Her cheeks are visibly aflame, her heated blush reaching the tip of either ear—but, she obeys. Lifts her chin meekly to look up at Ivy with big, uncertain doe eyes; something so unfathomably raw and vulnerable laid bare for Ivy (and Ivy alone) to witness on her face. 

Ivy feels a spark of unmistakable arousal zip down her spine at the sight of it. “You are an incredibly beautiful woman,” she says slowly, not in at all shying away from the measure of sincerity apparent in every word. “You know that, don’t you?" 

Harley gapes back at her like a deer in the headlights. “I-If you say so, Miss. I—Thank you.”

“You don’t have to believe me right now, sweetling. I just hope that some day you might."

Harley visibly blanches, clearly at a loss, but eventually manages a shallow nod. 

Ivy jerks her head over toward the stove, where puddles of pancake batter sizzle atop the griddle. “Do pancakes sound alright for breakfast?”

Harley’s lips pull upwards into a small, bashful grin. “Definitely, Miss,” she acquiesces, and Ivy can tell she means it. 

“Good. Have a seat, kitten. They’ll be ready in 10.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

“So, I’ve been in touch with some associates… They’re currently working to locate your son and any others the Joker may be detaining. I’ve offered them a hefty sum of money for the information, so I presume I’ll be hearing from them sometime soon.” Ivy informs Harley calmly. 

Harley nods eagerly—though, from the way she’s voraciously working her way through the stack of pancakes Ivy plated for her is any indication, she’s not really listening. 

Ivy takes a sip from her green smoothie, giving a nod to Harley’s half-eaten plate. “How are they? Not too bland, I hope?”

Harley takes a moment to swallow her food before responding. (Thankfully.) “‘Bland’?!” she repeats, visibly blanching. “These are fuckin’ _amazing_ , Miss. And—with the syrup _plus_ the homemade butter?” Harley devours another bite and lets out a muffled groan, pale eyelids fluttering shut. “I think I just came.”

Ivy raises a single brow, schooling her features into one of amused indifference even as a familiar jolt between her thighs has her resisting the urge to squirm. 

Harley flushes bright red and clamps her free hand over her mouth, apparently having only just realized what she said. 

The room is quiet as Harley chews and gulps down her pancakes with haste. 

“I, um—" Harley clears her throat awkwardly, cheeks aglow. “I just meant… They’re, um… They're really good, Ma'am.”

“Are you sure?” Ivy questions, a teasing smirk curving her lips. “I can provide you another pair of underwear if necessary.” 

Harley mock-glares, swollen pink lips pushed out to form an adorable pout. “You’re evil.”

“Oh, angel, you have no idea."

Harley bites her lower lip, a strangled sound dying in her throat.

Ivy indulges in another sip of her smoothie.

“You’re doing that on purpose, Miss,” Harley manages eventually, trying and failing to sound sufficiently reproachful. 

“Guilty as charged—though in my defense, you’re far too precious not to tease.” Another sip of her smoothie. “How was your phone call?”

Harley’s eyes widen. “G-Good,” she squeaks out before shoveling another forkful of pancakes into her mouth and promptly falling silent. 

“I’m glad.” Ivy nods, sipping noncommittally at her smoothie. Meanwhile, her mind wanders to the short list of things she’s yet to do for the day—extract toxins from the _Cicuta_ , contact Tatsu Yamashiro (former head of the Yakuza criminal syndicate in Gotham and a long-time business associate of Ivy's) concerning a Joker-related matter… 

“You’re not gonna ask me who it was?” Harley's question comes seemingly out of the blue, a decidedly suspicious expression on her pretty features. 

Ivy shrugs. “It’s none of my business. You deleted the record from my list of recent calls, yes?”

Harley ducks her head, clearly abashed. “Y-Yes, Miss.”

“Smart.” Ivy strokes a finger idly along the side of the half-full glass in her hand, gathering the condensation on her fingertip. “That’s what I’d do.”

“You can trust them,” Harley promises, eyes wide. “The person I was talking to—you can trust them. I promise.”

Ivy narrows her gaze. “What did I say, Harley? About the call?”

Harley crosses her ankles beneath the table, swinging them back and forth underneath her chair. “That it’s none’a your business, Miss.”

“Precisely. I’m not overly fond of repeating myself, kitten.”

Harley’s shoulders hunch. “Sorry, Miss.”

“It’s quite alright,” Ivy assures her with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now, finish your food. We have much to do today.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ivy: i don't cook, i don't clean-
> 
> harley: *exists*
> 
> ivy: *furiously scrubbing down the nearest flat surface with soap while water burns on the stove behind her* YES I DO THE COOKING, YES I DO THE CLEANING-
> 
> [u don't need to tell me i spend too much time on tiktok i already know i promise]


	13. moves (ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More moves are made as Harley and Ivy reach a pivotal moment in their dynamic. Also, there's some other shit going down in Old Gotham that'll shake things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi kids! finals are winding down, and i've finally figured out what i want to happen for the next few chapters. let's hope i can find the time/inspiration to write them
> 
> [VERONICA SINCLAIR](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roulette_\(DC_Comics\)) (aka ROULETTE) was written with dichen lachman's portrayal of her in the cw's _supergirl_ in mind. but, you don't really need to know a ton about her other than: she's a somewhat prominent figure in gotham's underground. past portrayals (both comics and visual media) largely depict her as being of east-asian descent. she deals in gambling (comics) and runs illegal alien fight clubs ([cw's portrayal](https://arrow.fandom.com/wiki/Veronica_Sinclair)). she's flirty and hot and has dragon tattoos. 
> 
> [FRANK THE PLANT](https://harleyquinn.fandom.com/wiki/Frank_the_Plant), for those who haven't seen _harley quinn: the animated series_ (though i would recommend it, as i think it's worth watching), is a character taken from that show. he is a large venus fly trap plant who can talk and eats human flesh.  
> you don't need to have seen _harley quinn: the animated series_ to understand what's happening here as his role is fairly minor, but at the very least, you might wanna look up a picture of him or something just to have something to visualize.

**SELINA**

“Selina Kyle,” Veronica Sinclair (better known to the majority of Gotham’s underground simply as ‘Roulette’) purrs. She’s nothing short of a vision standing there at the end of the catwalk in a red evening gown and shiny black Louboutins, flashing that red-lipped smirk her way and winking like she knows something the rest of them don't. It grates on Selina in ways she can’t explain. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Veronica Sinclair,” Selina greets in kind, resolutely willing herself not to falter beneath the weight of Veronica's lecherous scrutiny. “Can we talk in private?” She shifts her gaze pointedly over to the two broad-shouldered men in suits flanking her on either side. 

Veronica shrugs, making a dismissive gesture with her hands. 

The two men share a brief look with one another behind Veronica’s back, then promptly retreat into the shadows. 

“So? You’ve finally got me all alone. Tell me—what’s on your mind?” Veronica advances on her like prey, hips swaying sensuously from side to side. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a proper chat.”

“Well, I try my best to keep my hands relatively clean when it comes to the Joker and his… affiliates."

Veronica chuckles at that, like Selina’s just said something particularly funny. “You say that, and yet your girl Harley’s more tangled up with the likes of him than anyone.”

Selina smirks, as if she’s entertained. (She isn’t.) “That’s different, and we both know it."

“Perhaps,” Veronica deflects arbitrarily. “Though I don’t quite see why it matters. Beating a dead horse and all that, as it were.” 

“Maybe not quite so dead.”

“Oh?” Veronica raises a single brow, intrigued. “Do tell.”

Selina shakes her head. “Not here.” Lets her gaze dart pointedly down to a drunken couple stumbling toward the fight on the floor below. “It isn’t safe.”

Veronica regards her silently for a long moment. “Paranoid.”

“I prefer ‘cautious.’”

Veronica’s pouty red-lipped smirk flattens into a thin line, and something like genuine annoyance flares in her gaze. _Interesting_. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

/// /// /// 

**HARLEY**

Green Lady easily waves off Harley’s tentative (but earnest) offer to bus and wash her own dishes after breakfast. A tangle of vines slithers down from the ceiling a half-second later to cart the empty dish ware out of the way, and Harley figures by that point, it’s rather pointless to argue. 

“So, uh… “ She reflexively pulls her bruised knees up to her chest, arms around her shins—then, at Green Lady’s pointed look, promptly corrects herself: legs beneath the table, bare feet flat on the floor. "What exactly do we gotta do today, Miss?”

“Well, first, I’ve arranged for an… associate of Penguin’s to come by… ”

At the perfunctory mention of Oswald, Harley feels herself tense. She bites down _hard_ on her tongue in an effort to stifle the pained whimper that works its way up her throat. 

“... and then, I’ve also—” Green Lady stops herself. “Kitten?” she questions, her voice taking on that gentle tone she only ever seems to use when she’s worried about something. (More specifically, about _Harley_.)

Coppery blood explodes across her tongue. The familiar taste is a grounding balm on her frayed nerves. “Yes, Miss?” 

“Was it something I said?”

Harley forces a noncommittal shrug. “No, Miss.” At Green Lady’s dubious look, she adds, “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Was it my mention of Penguin?” Green Lady presses, brows stitched together with concern. 

Harley’s skin prickles with frustration—the kind she’d never dare to voice aloud in front of… well, _anyone_ , really. “It’s _fine_ , Miss.”

“Harley, if you’re at all uncomfortable, I’d much prefer it if you—”

“I said, it’s fuckin’ _fine_ ,” Harley blurts out finally, feeling something snap in her chest. “Alright?!”

Silence. 

Oh, fuck. Harley’s eyes widen, her body freezing where she sits. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Green Lady doesn’t look mad, but Harley knows better than to think that means she isn’t. 

After a silence that feels like hours to Harley but is probably only seconds, Green Lady chuckles. She _chuckles_ , low and genuine, unpainted green lips curled into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Unexpected,” she remarks, her silken tone wrought with mirth. Harley feels her cheeks flare with warmth. “Are you quite finished?”

— —

**IVY**

It’s a surprise, to be sure, when Harley finally snaps and talks back for the very first time.

Judging by the wide-eyed and utterly flabbergasted expression on Harley’s face, she feels the same. 

Inevitably, Ivy’s initial response is of two minds. On the one hand, she can’t help the stab of righteous indignation she feels at Harley’s impudence—no matter how justified. 

On the other, there’s a measure of pride that blooms unbidden in her chest at the knowledge that Harley dared to loosen her tongue in Ivy’s presence, even if only for a second. 

Still, the fact remains that this is a pivotal moment. Harley has spoken out of turn for the very first time, and from the absolute terror splayed across her features, she’s expecting swift (and brutal) retribution for it. 

Thus, Ivy’s response to this is crucial. It’ll set the tone for the progression of their dynamic moving forward, and she knows far better than to take that lightly. 

The situation is a delicate one (understatement), and although her heart is in the right place, she’s never been particularly known for her level-headedness in the heat of conflict.

That in mind, she chooses her next words carefully. “Kitten, I want you to go up to my bedroom.” At the mere mention of a bedroom, all the blood seems to drain from Harley’s ghastly-pale face. Ivy internally curses herself for being so tactless with her words. 

“Nothing will happen. I will not force myself on you as some twisted form of ‘punishment,’” she explains as patiently as she’s able, feeling her temples throb with the telltale beginnings of a headache. “I simply would like you to wait for me there. When I’m finished, I’ll come up and we’ll talk about this. Does that sound okay?”

Harley immediately nods, pigtails bouncing. She looks absolutely terrified. “Y-Yes, Miss.”

Ivy resists the urge to heave a sigh. “Thank you. You may go on up now.”

“Okay,” Harley stands from her seat, head bowed in shame. But instead of turning to leave, she lingers, shifting from foot to foot like a scolded child. “‘M real sorry, Miss.”

A tiny smile tugs at Ivy’s lips. “Go on, kitten. We’ll talk in a bit.”

🜃 🜃 🜃

**HARLEY**

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ she chides herself relentlessly as she trudges up the spiral staircase. Her feet feel like they’re encased in cinder blocks, but she’s careful not to drag them. _How could you be so fuckin’ stupid?_

The staircase leads directly out into the master suite, and Harley has to resist the urge to flop herself face-down onto the duvet. 

She doesn’t deserve a bed right now. Joker would argue that she doesn’t deserve a bed, period, (and Harley would probably be inclined to agree), but that’s neither here nor there.

No, she’s got other things to worry about as she sinks to her knees at the foot of the master bed, hands tucked neatly in her lap, head bowed—the very picture of quiet-mannered subservience. 

Namely: What in the fuckin’ _world_ possessed her to back-talk Green Lady like that. 

On the one hand, the shit that went down with Penguin was… nightmarish. Cold, ruthless, utterly singular in nature. She’d known Oswald was disordered, but unhinged enough to turn down three days of abusing her body without reservation or consequence? That was unprecedented, even for him. 

Sure, he had that thing with Nygma, but the two of them had always been on-and-off at best. Furthermore, he’d never been shy about his preferences when it came to the bedroom. Male, female, anywhere in between… It didn’t matter. As long as they were alive and kicking and mostly human, they were fair game. 

And, yea, it wasn’t like he got absolutely _nothing_ out of keeping Harley frozen in a block of ice (courtesy of Victor Fries, that delusional love-sick moron). It wasn’t like Harley didn’t know that serving as the alluring centerpiece for his precious Ice Lounge—literally frozen in place day after day—provided Penguin with an ego boost beyond measure. 

At the end of it, that’s all it was, right? A glorified power trip. He didn’t care about the nerve damage or the long-term side effects or the absolute hell it wreaked on Harley’s already severely compromised mental state. 

Harley likes to think she’s gotten pretty damn good at reading people, and doing it well. After all, you gotta be to get both an MD _and_ a PhD in psychiatry and psychology, respectively. But, that? That was a _radical_ deviation from his behavioral predilections, even for one as ostensibly nihilistic as Oswald. 

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t blame herself. 

In fact, she absolutely does. She’s stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ; she always has been. Impulsive, weak, incorrigibly naive. 

Even now, after everything, she’s still here doing the same old thing, dancing to the same worn-out beat… Making the same mistakes. 

She supposes she couldn’t have expected any better, but it stings just the same. 

She can only pray that Green Lady won’t punish her too harshly for it. 

— —

**IVY**

Ivy takes her time clearing the table. Cleans, rinses, dries the dishes. By the time she gets to wiping down the table, a plan of action is forming in her mind.

It’s almost a surprise that Frank—an oversized Venus flytrap with red stems, a big attitude, and an even bigger mouth—chooses that exact moment to get carted in. (Then again, he always did have a penchant for drama.) The person doing the carting in question? Some poor sucker in a tattered suit with glazed-over eyes and drool dribbling down his chin—probably hit with a little too heavy a dose of Ivy’s natural philotoxins. 

“Ivy-licious!” he bellows in lieu of greeting. The poor man holding him doesn’t so much as flinch at the sheer volume of his booming voice, nor does he so much as stumble on his way in. Impressive, especially considering Frank boasts about 6’8” (~2 meters), roots and all, and the large clay pot in which he’s planted is the farthest thing from light. “Have I got some good-ass news for you!”

“Frank,” Ivy groans, pinching the bridge of her nose, “now is _really_ not the time—”

“So you don’t wanna hear about where Joker’s got the little rugrat posted up?”

Ivy’s head whips around at a speed that might’ve been comical were it not for the urgency of the situation at hand. “What?” 

“You heard me!” Frank retorts, and Ivy has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she watches as the zombie of a man places Frank atop the counter, then bows his head respectfully and makes to leave. Ivy doesn’t stop him. “So, get this—I was thinkin’: Where you gonna hide a snot-nosed little brat with an endless capacity for screaming and pooping? And _then_ , I was like—”

“Hold on.” Ivy raises a finger, eyeing Frank carefully. His beady, red, flowered pupils eye her intently in return. “Is he safe?”

“If that’s your way of asking whether I _ate_ him—”

“Is. He. _Safe_?” Ivy growls, glaring him down. 

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus. The slimy little troll is just _fine_ , holed up in some shithole on the outskirts of Old Gotham,” Frank informs her, sounding by all accounts rather put out. “But I’d suggest not going in guns blazing until later tonight at the earliest.”

Ivy narrows her gaze. “Why’s that?”

“Little rendezvous happening two streets over—Zsasz, Crane, Fries. Sionis, too.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ivy curses. “What the hell are those low-lifes doing in Old Gotham?”

“Do I look like their fuckin’ mother? I don’t know! And either way, I am _not_ making another trip over there.”

Ivy arches a brow. “No?”

“Plant-killer _everywhere_.” Now, _that_ gives Ivy pause. “Vinegar, salt, herbicide up the wazoo. In other words, _someone_ did their fuckin’ homework!”

“But, how… _Fuck_ ! How do they _know_ ?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t _care_ ,” Frank asserts. “But I ain’t going.”

“No one asked you to.” Ivy huffs out a sigh, her skin crawling with tension. “This changes things,” she murmurs, beginning to pace back and forth. “I need to rethink everything.”

“You ask me, this kid’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask,” Ivy snaps, already turning to exit the kitchen. She and Harley need to talk about this, _at length_. “I’ll be right back, Frank. Don’t go anywhere!”

“Oh, _fuck_ you, woman! You know damn well I can’t move on my own!” 

🜃 🜃 🜃

**SELINA**

Selina swings her legs over the edge of the bed, peeling away the dampened sheet from her sweat-slick thigh with a wince. Her abdominal muscles scream in protest as she forces herself to sit upright, but she dutifully ignores it. 

After all, she’s nothing if not adaptable. 

The well-conditioned air is chilly against her bare skin as she rises to her feet. 

“Leaving so soon?” comes a velvety-smooth voice from the bed. It makes the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. 

Resisting the urge to heave a sigh, Selina turns on her heel to face Veronica head-on. 

There she lies, sensual as ever, the corner of one bed sheet draped across her tawny hips and a shit-eating grin curving kiss-swollen lips. All in all, she looks positively debauched—bedraggled hair, angry red bite marks littered all up and down her throat, blood-red lipstick smeared every which way around her mouth. And yet somehow, in spite of it all, she still manages to look like the cat that caught the _freaking_ canary. 

Which is irritating, to say the least. 

“What, you getting attached to me already?” Selina quips back insouciantly, plucking her catsuit up from where it sits in a wrinkled pile on the floor. “Where’s my thong?”

“Which one?” Veronica inquires, her satiny tone ripe with poorly-feigned innocence. 

Selina turns to fix her with a hard glare. (It does absolutely nothing to curb the self-righteous smirk splitting her _infuriatingly_ proportional features in two.) “I don’t have time for games right now, Roulette.”

“‘Roulette’? Ouch. Just minutes ago, it was ‘Ronnie.’”

_Christ_. “We’re not friends, Veronica,” Selina counters bitterly, yanking the legs of her latex suit up over her trembling limbs. 

“That’s true.” Veronica heaves a dramatic sigh, slipping off the edge of the bed and rising to her feet. She doesn’t feign modesty by attempting to cover herself, and Selina doesn’t expect her to. 

“Wow. Did you really just admit to me being right?”

Veronica tilts her head to one side, assessing Selina with critical eyes. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“Wow. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.”

“Look, let’s get back on point,” Selina reiterates, wriggling either arm into the sleeves of her suit with a huff. “We’re square, right?”

Veronica arches a brow, lips pursed like she’s trying hard not to laugh. “Is that a gay joke?”

“Shut up.” In one fluid motion, Selina yanks the zipper of her suit closed. “Just—you’ll hold up your end of the deal, yes?”

“I always do.”

/// /// ///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly wasn't planning on veronica and selina fucking, but the writing gods want what they want, i guess. i'm just the messenger. (also there's not nearly enough wlw representation as is, so might as well just make it all gay because it's my story and i can)
> 
> philotoxins = ivy's love toxins that make men go googoo gaga over her... i literally just made it up from the latin prefix "philo-" meaning "love" and then slapped it onto the word "toxins." look i'm not a linguist, ok
> 
> ALSO* i'm so fucking bad at replying to comments, but if you've commented even once on this work, i guarantee that i have read it. nice comments mean the fucking world to me, okay. i'm trying to get better about replying to them, but either way i want y'all to know that they are seen and appreciated so so much and if you have commented more than once on this fic, this note is also to inform you that i'm pregnant with your child. it's a girl <3


	14. weeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley and Ivy do some more talking, Selina gears up for a rescue mission, and Veronica holds up her end of an important deal. 
> 
> Also, we get a peek into what's going down with the meeting in Old Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [EIKO HASIGAWA](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Eiko_Hasigawa_\(Prime_Earth\)) is introduced very briefly in this chapter. she's the heiress to the hasigawa family branch of the yakuza (japanese mob) in gotham city. she's also an associate / friend of selina's.
> 
> VICTOR ZSASZ was written with mostly chris messina's portrayal of him from _birds of prey_ in mind, though there's a bit of anthony carrigan's portrayal of him from _gotham (tv)_ as well.
> 
> ROMAN SIONIS (aka BLACK MASK) was written with ewan mcgregor's portrayal of him from _birds of prey_ in mind.
> 
> PENGUIN (aka OSWALD COBBLEPOT) and VICTOR FRIES (aka MR. FREEZE) were both written with the _gotham (tv)_ portrayals in mind [robin lord taylor and nathan darrow, respectively].
> 
> BANE was written with mostly tom hardy's portrayal of him from _batman: the dark knight rises_ in mind, but also a little bit from his somewhat satirical portrayal in _harley quinn: the animated series_.
> 
> FLOYD LAWTON (aka DEADSHOT) was written with will smith's portrayal of him from _suicide squad_ in mind.
> 
> JONATHAN CRANE (aka SCARECROW) was written with cillian murphy's portrayal of him from _batman begins_ in mind.
> 
> [note: you don't need to have seen any of these films / shows in order to understand what's going on (although it might help). i just wanted to include this in case any of you were curious, or if you wanted to know which version of the character you should google in order to better visualize them as they appear]

**HARLEY**

Harley is numb. Her chest feels tight, heat prickles beneath her skin. Restlessness balloons in her chest, hot air leaving her in heaving gasps. She’s panicking. That’s what this is. 

She’s overwhelmed and panicking and she doesn’t know how to stop it. 

Hot flashes pulse in her chest even as pangs of Oswald’s icy memory trickle down her spine, chilling her to the bone. The world is tilting and she’s fucked up, again, and—

Green Lady’s words play in her head like a broken record, a never-ending feedback loop. _“Your son has been located… He’s safe, but we can’t get him.... We have to wait… Your son… located… safe… have to wait… Your son.”_

Eli. Her baby boy. Her _world_.

“Harley. Harley, I need you to listen to me.” Green Lady’s stern words cleave through the noise. She’s doing that _thing_ with her voice—over-enunciating all her syllables, lowering her register, injecting that note of severity into her tone that tells Harley she’d do well to listen here. 

Despite herself, Harley can’t help but tune into it. 

“Focus on me, babydoll. Only me,” she urges, gentle and firm. It’s all Harley can do to keep from crumpling as Green Lady’s familiar figure gradually comes back into focus, crouched before her on the floor. “I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen.”

Harley shivers as another cold flash hits her square in the chest, compressing her lungs from the outside in. Her ribs ache, her hands begin to tremble from the cold, but something is different this time. 

Green Lady is there, too. 

“My name is Pamela. Pamela Isley. Some people call me ‘Ivy.’ You’re Harley Quinn. We’re at my penthouse. It’s about half past noon.” Her lips are dark, juniper green; hypnotic when they move. “Frank is downstairs. He’s… an asshole, to be perfectly honest. He’s rude, obnoxious, swears like a sailor. But we’re… friends. He’s probably one of the only people in my life I’d classify as such. I’d love for you to meet him.”

Harley inhales deeply. Not as a response to anything Green Lady’s said, but simply because her lungs are burning and her breath is caught in her throat and she thinks she’ll pass out at any moment if she doesn’t take in some oxygen, stat. 

“He also eats people, which I’ll be the first to acknowledge is somewhat… strange. Regardless, I think you'd quite like him.”

Despite herself, Harley manages a jerky nod. “Frank… Sure, Miss,” she wheezes, cold sweat dotting her flushed cheeks. “Whatever you want.”

The come down is a bit of a blur. She isn’t sure how much time passes, but the fog in her head begins to clear, the persistent ache in her chest steadfastly dwindles. Sweat trickles down the sides of her temples, her body racks itself with the occasional shiver… but she comes back to herself (mostly), and that’s what matters. 

As she does, Green Lady is still talking. Frivolous things (though not entirely devoid of meaning, in any sense). Just… words. Facts. Chatter, like they’re old friends. 

“... I suppose the name ‘Ivy’ appeals to me because it’s almost paradoxical in nature. It isn’t quite what it seems.” Her figure sharpens in Harley’s vision. She’s sitting on the floor, too, cross-legged in front of Harley. No joggers, just boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt. She looks a lot less intimidating like that. “People think ‘poison ivy’ when they hear it, when in reality, poison ivy isn’t a true ivy plant at all. I imagine you’d probably have something to say about how that reflects back on me. You know, from a psychological perspective.”

Now, _that_ draws Harley’s attention. “You—” _A psychological perspective_. “How do you—?”

“Your name came up in my research over the past couple days,” she says, studying Harley intently. “You never told me you were a doctor.”

“I’m not.” Harley hugs herself, sitting back on her haunches. Her knees ache. “Not anymore.”

“Harley, you have an MD _and_ a PhD,” Green Lady— _Ivy_ (should Harley call her Ivy?)—presses gently. “I read your thesis on criminal insanity driven by acute hormone imbalances, particularly those characteristic of chemical love. It was… fascinating.”

Harley feels her cheeks get hot. “It took me forever to finish.”

Green Lady… Ivy… nods indulgently. “I’m sure it did. It was very well-written.”

If her face gets any hotter, it’ll burst into flames. She desperately needs to change the subject. “Miss… Should I call you Ivy now?”

Green Lady arches a brow. “As opposed to Pamela?” 

“Well, not exactly… I just been callin’ ya ‘Green Lady’ in my head,” Harley admits, more than a little bit sheepish. “I like the name ‘Ivy,’ though. It’s pretty. Like you.” At the latter admission, she snaps her jaw shut. She _really_ needs to work on that filter. 

“That’s sweet of you to say, angel. And yes, I do tend to prefer ‘Ivy’ when it comes to my personal life.” The broad grin she sends Harley’s way is like sunlight on a perfect summer’s day—warm, dazzling, radiant. “How are you feeling now? Better?”

“Yes, Miss.” Harley nods, fighting not to squirm as a bead of sweat creeps down along the dip in her spine. “I’m… I’m sorry. I panicked.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Harley. You’ve been through quite a lot.”

Harley nods again, though she hardly knows why. She can’t focus on anything. “Wh-Where is he? Where is my son?”

“Old Gotham. I don’t know exactly where, but Frank can tell us.”

“We need to get him back,” Harley utters out numbly. Her mouth feels dry; her eyes burn with unshed tears. “Miss, please, I—I _need_ to get him back.”

Green L— _Ivy_ nods, like she understands. Harley doubts that she does. “Do you remember what I said earlier? About waiting?”

Harley hums, trying to think back. “It’s… It’s too dangerous now. Joker’s guys are down there, too.”

“Very good.” Despite everything, the simple praise warms Harley’s heart. “Now, would you like to talk about your little… _outburst_ downstairs in the meantime, or would you prefer to do that later?”

Harley shivers. “N-Now, please.”

“Are you sure?” A crease forms between Ivy’s brows. “I can put on a Netflix show, or perhaps a movie while we wait. I know your mind isn’t entirely present right now.”

“No, it is, Miss,” Harley corrects Ivy before she can think to stop herself. “That’s the problem. I’m here, and… I need things that make sense.” A tear traces down her cheek, hot and wet; the truth tumbles from her lips in a rush. “I do something bad, I get punished. I _need_ that. I need you to show me that my actions have consequences, even now. _Especially_ now. Okay?”

Ivy studies her for a long moment. Eventually, she nods. “Okay.” 

— —

**SELINA**

She stops by one of her safe houses (or safe _apartments_ , as it were) scattered throughout the city. She takes a quick shower, hastily scrubs away the lipstick stains and dried sweat and lingering remnants of Veronica’s touch. 

Her phone screen lights up with two texts—one from Bruce, one from an unsaved (but familiar) number. Eiko Hasigawa. Heiress to the Hasigawa Family syndicate in Gotham city—Yakuza. Selina ignores the one from Bruce for the moment, and thumbs open the other. 

She and Eiko have never been terribly close, so it’s unsurprising that the contents of the text are scant: 

_13:42_  
**From: +1 (212) 808-0017**  
+1 (212) 314-9334. Good luck. 

She blows out a long breath, steeling herself, then clicks the number. It rings once, twice… thrice. She sighs, deposits it atop her bedside table with the speaker on, then turns to begin digging through the nearby dresser.

She’s managed to turn up a Glock, garrote wire, and three kunai throwing knives (Eiko’s) by the time someone finally picks up. 

(Fine, so maybe she and Eiko are closer than Selina originally let on.) 

“Hello?” It’s a low, rumbling voice. Familiar. (Unfortunately.) All at once, Selina knows exactly with whom she’s speaking. “Who’s this? How’d you get this number?”

She sighs, coiling the garrote wire around her wrist and striding back over to retrieve the phone. “Hello, Daddy.”

Things go quiet on the other end for a long moment, until, eventually: “... Selina?”

Selina clenches her jaw, tosses the unloaded Glock onto the bed and continues rummaging through the bottom drawer in search of bullets and a mag. “What, you got another street rat daughter I don’t know about?”

“Selina, I—”

“Save it,” Selina snaps then sighs, cross with herself for letting him get under her skin. She grabs the phone, turns the speaker off, holds it up against her ear. “Look, Pops, I didn’t call to fight. I assume you spoke to Eiko?”

He grunts. “Nice girl. Are you and her, uh… ” he trails off awkwardly, leaves the question unspoken. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Ah,” he says, like her non-answer is answer enough. It just makes her hate him all the more. “Well, I like her, for what it’s worth.”

Selina pointedly resists the urge to sink a throwing knife into the nearest wall. “Do you have an address for me, or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. It wasn’t easy, mind you.”

“Dad,” she warns. 

“My daughter, all business.” He chuckles. “Alright. You got a pen and paper to write this down?”

Selina’s a step ahead of him—pulling out the top drawer of her bedside table, snatching up a dull pencil and a stack of purple sticky notes. “Yeah.”

“‘907 East Bleaker Road.’ You got that?”

_East Bleaker… That’s in Old Gotham. Interesting_. 

“Yeah.” Selina nods, setting down her pencil. “And you’re sure the kid’s there?” 

“Had one of my most trusted guys scope it out earlier today,” he confirms. _Good_ , Selina thinks. _Eli’s safe_. “Listen, ‘Lina, I—”

_Click!_

Selina hangs up, tosses her phone back onto the bed. “Fuck you,” she says aloud.

The empty room doesn’t answer.

/// /// ///

**HARLEY**

Harley’s jaw damn near hits the floor when Ivy tells her exactly what her “punishment” will entail. 

“Wh—Y—Excu—” she sputters. “ _Excuse me_?!”

“What’s the matter?” Ivy just arches a single brow in something like a challenge. “Cat got your tongue?”

Harley’s cheeks flush with heat. “This… This is a _joke_ , right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“But—That’s not—”

“Not what, Harley?”

“That’s not a _punishment_ !” 

“Why not?”

“Because it’s _not_ ! It’s… It’s gardening!”

Ivy purses her lips, poorly suppressing a vainglorious smirk. “Plant care is an important skill.”

“It’s a chore, not a punishment, Miss.”

“The two aren’t entirely unrelated,” Ivy points out gently. “Tell me, Harley: do you enjoy pulling weeds in your spare time?”

Harley pointedly resists the urge to roll her eyes. “No, Miss, I don’t.”

“Precisely,” Ivy remarks, looking for all the world as if she’s enjoying this far more than she should be. “Punishments are punishments because they’re unpleasant—something that you wouldn’t otherwise want to do.”

Harley ponders that for a moment. “Punishments should hurt, Miss,” she murmurs out eventually. “They leave bruises and make you bleed.”

“Sometimes, but not always.” Ivy’s green eyes flicker with something dark—here one second, gone the next. “Who taught you that, sweetling?”

Harley bows her head in shame, only for Ivy to stop her mid-motion; guide her swiftly back up with a finger beneath her chin until she meets her intent gaze once more. “... Joker. Ma’am.” 

“When an unruly child misbehaves, you put them in time-out. You make them do chores, maybe ground them from certain activities. No bruising or bleeding involved, and yet, each of them are punishments in their own right, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harley hesitates, but nods. 

Ivy’s stony expression softens somewhat. Her gaze seems to bore straight through Harley. “Your body is battered enough as it is, darling. I’ve never been one to partake in violence for violence’s sake, and I don’t intend to start now. Do you understand me?”

Immediately, Harley nods. 

“Good girl,” Ivy lauds warmly with a crooked smirk. Harley feels her cunt clench. “And besides, if it’s pain you’re after, I can promise that even an hour spent weeding will make your body ache in ways you’ve never known before.” 

— —

**VERONICA**

Veronica Sinclair sits alone at a table for two in an empty restaurant, sipping a glass of Chardonnay and waiting for the phone to ring. 

Fortunately, she doesn’t have to wait for very long. 

_Buzz-buzz!_

The disposable cell (one she’d purchased specifically for this job) vibrates beside an empty plate. 

She sets the wine glass down, answers the phone. 

“Is it done?” she asks. 

“Yeah, boss. C-4 lining the back wall, and a couple Claymores at the exits in case any of ‘em try duckin’ out early—just like you said.”

Veronica nods in approval, absentmindedly smudging the imprint of her lipstick along the rim of the glass with her thumb. “Good. Time?” 

“Six minutes, starting…” She hears a telltale beep over the line. “... Now.”

With that, she hangs up—shutting the cell with a satisfying _click_. Uses her knife to pry open the plastic casing, extracts the SIM card, drops it into what’s left of her wine with a satisfying _plink_. 

She better not live to regret this. 

♠ ♠ ♠ 

**ZSASZ**

Victor Zsasz huffs, kicking his feet up onto the table and leveling his companions with a hard stare. “Look, gentlemen… Not that this isn’t fun and all, but I don’t really like any of you. Are we about done here?”

Victor—the _other_ Victor, Victor Fries—silently stares him down. He doesn’t say anything (shocker), but the slight tilt of his head and the crazed look in his milky-white eyes tells Zsasz it’s not for lack of wanting. 

Crane—minus the ratty burlap Scarecrow hood, which sits neatly folded on the wooden tabletop—smiles, like he finds the whole thing particularly amusing. 

Lawton leans back in his chair and continues polishing his pistol, giving absolutely no indication that he’s heard anything that’s been said for the past twenty minutes.

Penguin heaves a sigh, like he couldn’t care less either way. 

Bane just glares. 

“Now, Victor,” Roman chides fondly, ever the eccentric. “Let’s try to be more cordial, hm? We’re all friends here.” He grins his broad, winning smile around the table. 

No one returns it. 

“Personally, I fail to see the point in all this,” Bane warbles, irritation coming off of his bulky figure in waves. “Why do we care about some philanthropist bitch in a fancy suit?”

“A philanthropist bitch who can _control plants_ ,” Penguin corrects. 

“Allegedly,” Crane adds, pushing square-ish glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know that for sure.”

“It _is_ a rather bold claim…” Roman agrees.

“It’s Gotham!” Penguin exclaims, green eyes alight with delirium. “ _Nothing_ is impossible. We should know that better than anyone.”

“Ah, so I suppose we have you to thank, Oswald, for the way this entire building reeks of plant killer,” Roman remarks with a tight grin. “Positively putrid. Well done.”

Penguin scowls. “Better safe than dead, don’t you think?”

“You don’t think you’re being just a teensy bit dramatic here?”

“You’re wearing monogrammed gloves,” Penguin deadpans.

Roman nods, leaning back in his seat and grinning cockily as if he’s just been afforded an especially flattering compliment. “They’re custom-made, too,” he brags, holding them up for inspection. “Crocodile leather.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Are you ladies done over there?”

“Fuck you, Lawton.”

Zsasz rolls his eyes, but he’s not paying much attention to their petty bickering. Instead, he’s plucking a cigarette from the pack on the tabletop and feeling around in his pocket for the Zippo lighter he never leaves home without. He’s dying for a smoke. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Crane tells him, an almost amused twinkle in his eye.

Zsasz clenches his jaw in frustration, glowering at Crane across the tabletop. “Why’s that, Johnny?”

Crane holds up a finger, makes a show of sniffing the air. Drama queen. “You smell that?” 

“It smells like vinegar,” Zsasz says through gritted teeth. 

“And that rancid weed killer,” Roman adds.

“Did you take chemistry in high school, Victor?” Crane inquires, calmly holding Zsasz’s narrowed gaze. 

“Let’s pretend I didn’t.”

“Well, where you smell vinegar, I smell acetic acid. You see, household vinegar is 5% acetic acid—hence the similar scents. Additionally, most popular herbicides include the active ingredient glyphosate.”

“Get to the point, Crane,” Bane growls. 

“Acetic acid is both flammable and highly corrosive, while glyphosate produces highly combustible hydrogen gas.”

Roman frowns. “Huh?”

“He’s saying if you light up, the room goes ‘boom,’” Lawton supplies without looking up from his precious handgun. He sounds bored. Zsasz doesn’t blame him.

Crane nods. “In layman’s terms, yes.”

“Sanctimonious bastard,” Zsasz grumbles. Still, he tosses the cigarette and pockets the lighter without any further argument. He’s in no mood to be the epicenter of a five-alarm fire. “Let’s just get this over with, so I can go out and have a smoke.” 

“Well, first thing’s first—we need to find a way to either confirm or deny this woman’s supposed… abilities.” 

“What does it matter either way?” Lawton asks. “Isn’t she doin’ business with Jay recently, same as all of you?”

“It may make Joker exempt from any backlash,” Fries interjects evenly. “I can’t say the same for the rest of us.”

“What do we know about her, anyway?” Bane warbles, bushy brows furrowed in thought.

“Dr. Pamela Isley. PhD in botany. She’s rich, not from around here,” Crane offers up with a shrug. “Rumor has it, she’s taken quite the interest in Joker’s Harley.”

Lawton visibly tenses. “Harley? The hell does she want with Harley?” 

_Interesting_.

Roman dismissively waves a single gloved hand, like he doesn’t care. The pulsing vein in his temple says otherwise. “Who cares? It’s probably some stupid feminist thing.” 

“Or,” Penguin begins, eyes narrowed, “they’re plotting something.”

Zsasz snorts. “You’re paranoid, Ozzie.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.”

“Whatev—”

“Paranoid or not, Pamela Isley could cause problems. For all of us,” Crane interjects in a measured tone. Zsasz grins. He can tell where this is going. “I think it’d be in our best collective interest to remove her from the equation.”

Fries frowns. “That seems rather… extreme.”

“And who wants to volunteer for that?” Lawton questions, his tone ripe with derision. “‘Cause I’ll tell you right now, it ain’t gonna be me.”

Trigger-happy as he may be, Zsasz finds himself nodding along with that. He’s not stupid enough to mess around in Joker’s sandbox. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m not really feelin’ it either.” 

“And why’s that?” Crane asks. “Because she’s in business with Joker?” 

Lawton leans forward, fixing Crane with a heavy-browed glare. “Joker doesn’t give a damn about anything or any _one_. He’d slaughter us all for twenty bucks and a mediocre blowjob.”

“Not to mention, he has the means to do it,” Bane adds helpfully. 

“Do you really wanna take that chance?”

Crane swallows, indecision flitting across his angular features. “Well—”

**_FWOOM!_** All of a sudden, the room erupts in a flash of blinding white and fiery orange. Raw heat singes the hairs on Zsasz’s arms; debris flies this way and that; deafening white noise rings shrilly in his ears.

The last thing Zsasz sees before it all goes dark is a rogue brick flying full-speed directly at his nose. 

𝐗 𝐗 𝐗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> selina's father, though left unnamed in this chapter, is a man named [REX "THE LION" CALABRESE](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Rex_Calabrese_\(Prime_Earth\)). he abandoned selina when she was nine. he was a mob boss in gotham city before batman's time, then eventually went to prison
> 
> also i used (212) area codes for gotham city phone numbers, because that's what they use in the gotham tv show and as far as i could tell, gotham city has never been given an area code in the comics. 212 is also the area code for manhattan, i believe
> 
> i'm amazed that some of you have stuck with me this long, dude, holy shit.... cannot articulate how much it means to me, but please know that it's a whole fucking lot <3


	15. complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selina's creeping around Old Gotham on the hunt for Eli, when she runs into a familiar face from her past. Oh, and an explosion rocks the district. 
> 
> Harley meets Frank and makes an impulsive decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know this is such a quick update lol it just kind of wrote itself i guess... i was inspired, ok?
> 
> i also still don't know how to proofread because i'm gay.. please feel free to drop a comment if you see any glaring errors so i can fix them!
> 
> if you've stuck with me this long, i feel like you deserve a freaking medal dude all the encouraging comments and kudos etc. mean the absolute world to me <3

**SELINA**

Getting to Old Gotham is the easy part. She hotwires an absolute beauty of a chopper parked a couple blocks down from her flat. Laced rims, carbon-fiber bodywork, spotless cherry-red paint-job save for a couple minor scrapes along the back end. Last but not least, Harley-Davidson manufactured, with the brand to prove it. 

Harley would love it. 

It purrs like a kitten and rides like a fucking _dream_ , taking her 0-60 in ten seconds flat. She sticks to backroads and alleys when main streets can be avoided, and does her best to ignore the rancid stench of vinegar and chemical acid that hits her like a freight train the minute she crosses over from the Diamond District into Old Gotham proper. 

It’s a different atmosphere there—a different world. Abandoned storefronts, shattered glass on the pavement. All the doom and gloom so characteristic of their beloved city intensified a thousand fold in a time capsule of the place they used to be. 

It makes her ache for home—a foolish thought. She has no home.

Cantor (a dreary road just two streets down from Bleaker) is as far as she dares venture on the bike before stashing it under a tarp in an abandoned carport nearby. 

Next, she pulls up maps for the region on her phone. She needs to be smart about this—recon first, then drop in from above. No going in blind, no ringing the doorbell. 

Best-case scenario, she’s outnumbered something like five to one. Worst-case scenario? Well. She can’t afford to think about that. 

Five minutes later sees her vaulting one rooftop to another, brisk afternoon breeze stinging her cheeks and murder on her mind. The chemical stench is better from up high—far less concentrated. 

Her chest burns, her legs ache, sweat beads at the nape of her neck. 

Two more jumps. The first is easy—the shortest she’s encountered yet. The execution isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t have to be. She sails through the air—legs tucked beneath her, arms folded into her chest. She feels a little twinge in her ankle as she touches down on the other side, but she ignores it. 

She’s already scanning the next rooftop up ahead as she darts across the uneven landing. It’s slightly elevated—a foot higher than where she’s at, maybe. She’ll have to adjust the height of her leap accordingly. A quick peek over the edge tells her it’s a solid 20 feet (~6 meters) across. 

_Who needs an alley 20 feet wide?_

She blows out a long, slow breath as she retreats, backpedaling until she’s back on the other side of the rooftop, the rubber heel of her boot teasing the edge. As something of an afterthought, she pats along her thighs and waist to ensure she’s still got all the weapons she came with—kunai throwing knives, Glock, a couple flashbangs. The garrote wire bites at the bare skin of her wrist, the cell phone warms itself between her tits, her trusty night-vision goggles rest snugly along her hairline. 

“Here goes nothing,” she mutters, then takes off at a dead sprint for the other side before she can question herself any further. 

She accelerates like a bullet but still doesn’t reach top speed before she’s there, pushing up and off the ledge, solid ground behind her and nothing at her feet. It’s a bit like flying, for a moment. Time slows. Old Gotham fades into irrelevance around her. 

But the moment passes and it ends, as all things do. _Ç’est la vie_. 

Awareness snaps through her like a whip—the chill of the air, the throbbing ache in her muscles, the twenty-story drop below her. All at once, it feels less like flying and more like falling—falling forward, sure, but falling nonetheless. 

She’s never been a fan of falling. Eiko had laughed when Selina told her that, all perfect white teeth and red-painted lips and playful mirth twinkling in her pretty brown eyes. 

“But don’t cats always land on their feet?” she’d asked, brows raised, kiss-swollen lips pushed out to form a perfect pout—the very picture of mild-mannered innocence, even despite the smudged lipstick and angry pink bite-marks lining her throat. 

Selina had simply rolled her eyes. “Cute,” she’d remarked dryly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and rising to her feet to begin searching for her discarded clothing. She couldn’t bear the weight of Eiko’s quiet regard, the gentle way she looked at Selina like she could see everything—the fear, the pain… the love; everything Selina could never bring herself to say aloud. 

She’d yanked her panties on, and was working on clipping her bra when Eiko spoke up again. 

“It’s not just the physical aspect, is it?” she’d asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Selina’s hands trembled, but she clenched her jaw and willed herself to focus on finding the rest of her clothes. “Is that why you won’t even look at me right now?” 

God help her, but that hurt worse than any fall she’d ever weathered. 

Well, Eiko or not, she’s looking now. In fact, she can’t _stop_ looking. 

The brick of the building hurtling towards her, the way she’s sinking into air like it’s quicksand. The impact of her torso against the side of the building is absolutely brutal. _Crack_ goes at least one of her ribs, expelling all the breath from her lungs in a choked-out rush. Her boots scrabble against worn-down brick, but her grip on the elevated ledge is firm, and she knows that this is as bad as it gets. She’s home free if she can manage this. (Provided she doesn’t slip, that is.)

Pulling herself up is excruciating. Every muscle in her arm screams in protest, tendons searing with a white-hot burn that’ll give her hell come tomorrow morning. She really should start doing pull-ups. Her ribs ache, her heartbeat hammers painfully in her chest. 

But she is bigger than this pain… _stronger_. She’s always had to be. A death grip on the ledge keeps her steady while she swings one leg up and over, wedges her knee against the solid concrete and carefully guides the rest of her weight to follow. 

She rolls over and onto her back less than a foot from the ledge, staring up at overcast skies and heaving for breath. Her Glock digs into her lower back, her ribs throb with every breath, and the concrete is cold like ice beneath her—but she is alive, and that is what matters. 

_Fucking 20-foot wide alleyways_.

/// /// /// 

**HARLEY**

Whatever Harley said before about pulling weeds, it’s become all too clear over the last half-hour that, much like all things where Ivy’s concerned, this deceptively simple task is not at all what it seems. 

For starters, Ivy hadn’t been lying when she’d said that weeding would make Harley ache in ways she’s never known before. Here she is, kneeling in a bed of moistened dirt on the rooftop, yanking at horsenettle weeds beneath a sweltering mid-afternoon sun, shoulders on _fire_ with an ache beyond her years. 

Ivy left a little while ago, citing a meeting with someone named ‘Tatsu.’ A couple minutes after that, a tangle of vines had carted up a potted plant the size of an NBA post player to keep her company, or… something. It looked like one of those Venus flytrap plants Harley saw when her 3rd-grade class took a field trip to the Gotham City Geodesic Dome, except bigger. A _lot_ bigger. 

It also had these two red stems topped with twin flower-like blossoms that acted less like flowers and more like eyes. _Seeing_ eyes. 

Oh, and this—it spoke, too. 

“Aw, hell no!” it bemoaned loudly as the vines set it down alongside a gaping Harley. “I did _not_ ask for a fuckin’ roommate!” 

All at once, the dots had connected in Harley’s mind. _“Frank… an asshole,”_ Ivy had said. _“He’s rude… obnoxious… swears like a sailor. But we’re… friends.”_

Harley had turned to Frank with a crooked grin, dusting off her gloved hands and eyeing her new companion with interest. “Hiya, Frank!” she’d chirped. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Harley.”

He’d hesitated momentarily as if sizing her up, until, “Well, aren’t you just sweet as fuckin’ pie.” Sarcasm and insincerity overlaid his words, but they’d made Harley giggle nonetheless. “What’d Ivy do, kidnap you?”

Harley had felt her cheeks heat at the mere mention of Ivy. “Naw, Miss Ivy’s been real sweet to me,” Harley told Frank honestly. “Miss Ivy says you’re her friend.”

“Ha! That’ll be the day,” Frank exclaimed, flashing a fanged grin down at her. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here, pulling weeds on a fuckin’ Tuesday.”

“Oh.” Harley looked down at the horsenettle weeds dotting the soil, cheeks burning. “I just gotta do this punishment stuff ‘cause I back-talked her.”

“Uh-huh,” Frank had said, sounding bored. Harley hadn’t been sure he’d even heard her. “So what does that make me, then? Your babysitter?”

Seeing an opportunity, Harley perked up. “What about a friend?” she’d asked, craning her neck to give him a hopeful look.

“ _Fuck_ no.”

“Oh.” She shrugged, wrapping her gloved hands around an especially large horsenettle and pulling. “Worth a try.”

Fast-forward about ten minutes after that, Frank is leaned comfortably up against the lone cherry-blossom tree while Harley’s still knelt in the dirt pulling weeds, every muscle in her upper body on _fire_. 

She’s got socks and a pair of athletic shoes (Ivy’s) on instead of going barefoot. They’re a little big on her, and with how much she’s sweating, she’s more than a little worried about having stinky feet by the end, but it’s nice all the same. It makes her feel like a person, and heaven knows that that feeling’s been in short supply for the past seven years. 

Her knees ache from kneeling for so long, but she doesn’t mind nearly as much as she usually does. Here, kneeling doesn’t mean a cock to suck or a cunt to lick or rough hands slapping her while she’s down. Here, kneeling is just earthy soil and cute little plants and a bunch of stubborn-as-hell weeds that Ivy’s relying on Harley to pull. It’s… _safe_.

Still, safe doesn’t always mean comfortable, and the sweat that’s starting to soak through Ivy’s “PLANT DADDY” T-shirt is evidence of that. 

She already feels guilty enough about the socks and shoes. Mind made up, she drops a couple lopsided horsenettles into the bucket, peels off her gloves and carefully balances them over the lid. 

Frank whoops loudly as she strips the T-shirt off and bundles it up in one hand, leaving her in tiny grey shorts and a sports bra (both Ivy’s) and little else. She ignores him. Instead, she gets to her feet, brushes off her knees, then runs over to drop it in clean grass by the cherry blossom tree before quickly scurrying back to her post.

She wants to do a _really_ good job here, make Ivy proud. 

She thinks the rest of it might start falling into place if she can just manage to do that. 

— —

**SELINA**

The sun’s about a half-hour from touching the horizon as Selina peers over the ledge, sights set on a run-down apartment building just across the street. 907 East Bleaker. It’s a relatively short structure, no more than six stories high. 

Levels five and six are structurally suspect at best, dark singe marks painting the pale grey stone an ugly black. Less than ideal considering they’re harboring a nine-year-old kid in a fire-weakened structure, but at the very least, it’ll make for less ground to cover. 

She’s just begun mapping out her offensive when she hears it—boots on the stairs. Muffled, but unmistakable. It’s coming from behind her. 

She whirls around just in time to see someone bursting through the roof-access door and out onto the landing. He’s a relatively short man with hunched shoulders and a noticeable limp wearing a pinstriped suit that looks straight out of _Beetlejuice_. Oh, and he’s got an SMG levelled straight at Selina’s chest. 

“I got her, boss!” he calls over his shoulder in an obnoxious Gothamite accent. His eyes are bloodshot, crazed, trained on Selina like she’ll vanish the second he takes them off her. “Rooftop!”

More boots on the stairs—one, two, maybe three guys. 

“Look, as much as I’d love to do… whatever the hell this is,” she begins, “I’m a little busy at the moment.” Her hand begins to creep behind her back, reaching down towards the Glock in her waistband. “Let’s take a raincheck, shall we?”

The last of his troupe come busting through the roof-access door just moments after: two men in matching _Beetlejuice_ suits, one slight and greasy-looking, the other— 

_Oh, fuck_. 

_Oh, fuck_. 

An ugly, hulking mass of a man with lumpy slate-grey features like cracked stone and fingers each as thick as bratwurst sausages. His small, beady eyes glow a lurid red beneath the prominent jut of a non-existent unibrow. He makes Waylon Jones look clean-shaven in comparison. 

“Selina Kyle,” Louis ‘Bone’ Ferryman greets, crusty lips pulled into a twisted grin. His voice sounds like rocks in a garbage disposal—just as Selina remembers it. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not nearly long enough,” Selina snaps. Her hand curls around the grip of the pistol, pointer finger teasing the trigger. It does little to ease the ice in her veins. “The hell do you want, Bone?”

“Aww, that’s no way to treat an old acquaintance,” he rumbles. “Where are your manners, little girl?”

Selina feels something snap in her chest. In a flash, the gun is torn from her waistband and she’s aimed it directly at his _stupid_ cracked-stone forehead, hammer pulled back, pointer finger itching to pull the trigger. 

“I’ll give you fifteen seconds to answer the goddamned question,” she snarls, heartbeat thundering in her chest, ribs smarting like a bitch. 

“Now, now,” he drawls, hands up in a mocking show of surrender. As if on cue, the goons flanking him on either side snap to attention, twin barrels of two identical semi-automatics staring her down. “Is it that time of month again?”

“Ten.”

The moment she shoots, she’s done like last night’s dinner. She knows that, but she _really_ doesn’t care. 

“No, you’re not still mad about the Lola MacIntire thing, are you?” he prattles on, unhurried, as if she doesn’t currently have a Glock leveled at his forehead. “C’mon, sweetheart—that was business, not personal.”

“‘Not personal,’ my ass,” Selina scoffs, forgetting entirely about the count as rage wells inside her. A sob works its way up in her throat, and she forcefully swallows it back down. “You came after her because you wanted me.”

Bone spreads his hands, not a single hint of apology in his lecherous gaze. “You mess with my things, I mess with yours. That’s business.”

“She isn’t a ‘thing,’ you freakazoid _brute_ !” _Wasn’t_ , a voice in her head corrects. The gun trembles in her hand. “She was my _friend_.”

“She was scum,” Bone corrects matter-of-factly. “Nothing more than a menopausal blonde bimbo with saggy tits and a nasty habit of sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.”

Red clouds her vision. “She was my _friend_ ,” she reiterates, her voice trembling with rage, unshed tears burning her eyes. It’s everything she can do to keep herself from losing her cool. “And you—”

“What? Freed you from her? You’re welc—”

“You SLAUGHTERED her!” Selina roars, hot tears streaking down her cheeks. With the way her finger’s twitching on the trigger, it’s a miracle that bullets aren’t flying right now. 

“Foolish girl.” He rolls his eyes, heaving a sigh and shaking his head like he’s genuinely disappointed in her. “What did I tell you? Your attachments would ruin you.”

Selina damn near chokes on her own sobs, grief and despair tearing a hole in her chest. “She was a _good person_. I was better for knowing her.” She never told anyone that. Not Eiko, not Bruce. Not even Harley. “You didn’t have to kill her.”

Bone opens his mouth as if to speak, mirth in his eyes. For better or for worse (likely the former), something happens before he gets the chance. 

_**FWOOM!**_

A deafening blast sounds from two streets down, making Selina stumble forward. She steadies herself just in time to whip around and catch the tail-end of the explosion: fire and smoke and debris erupting skyward in a blazing inferno, nearby buildings going up in flames. It’s less than two blocks east off their location, which Selina would like to chalk down to a deeply unfortunate coincidence… but, alas. 

In her line of work, coincidences were like three dollar bills—nonexistent. 

“God fucking dammit,” she curses to herself as tall flames lick a roaring trail through the dilapidated streets of Old Gotham, spreading rapidly from the blast site outwards. They’re not confined to the blast radius, it seems, because she supposes a normal explosion would’ve just been too much to ask for. 

Fire surges ever nearer, mapping a trail headed straight for Bleaker Road. _Eli_. Selina feels her heart constrict in her chest. 

_Fuck, this day just got a whole lot more complicated_.

/// /// /// 

**HARLEY**

She’s wrestling with a particularly stubborn sprout, both hands yanking its thick green stem with all her might, when—

**BOOM!**

A distant blast (the kind bombs make) sounds, reverberating throughout the city. It has Harley immediately snapping her head up and looking wildly around for the source, her work forgotten at her feet. 

“What the fuck was that?” Frank calls from his shady spot beneath the cherry blossom tree. 

“I don’t know.” Harley frowns, itching her cheek. She thinks she probably smears some dirt there on accident, but it’s the least of her worries as she rises to her feet, surveying all of Gotham around them for a hint of trouble. 

For better or for worse, she finds it a half a second later. Flames rise from some run-down sector near the City Hall District, black smoke billowing up into gloomy grey clouds. 

“There!” she points with a gloved finger, glancing back at Frank to make sure he’s paying attention. “Ya see that? Where’s it comin’ from?”

Frank’s flower-eyes narrow slightly like he’s deep in thought. “Oh, shit!” he exclaims finally. “That’s Old Gotham!”

Her stomach drops. _Eli_. “What?”

“Who would wanna burn down that shithole?” Frank wonders aloud, but Harley isn’t listening. She couldn’t be further away. 

Old Gotham just exploded, and from the looks of it, they’ve been watering their plants with gasoline, because the fire is spreading like nothing she’s ever seen before. 

She should be there. 

She _needs_ to be there. 

She walks over the garden bed like a zombie until she’s at the edge of the rooftop, peers over the side. Tangled vines blanket the apartment building, from the very top floor (Ivy’s penthouse) all the way down to street level. 

“Harley?” Frank speaks up. His voice sounds distant, faraway. “Girl, get the fuck away from there! The hell do you think you’re doing?”

She doesn’t think. She doesn’t have _time_ to think.

She crouches down, grabs a thick vine just along the edge of the landing. _Here goes nothing_. Swings herself over the side, legs flailing to find a foothold until—

_There_. The sole of her sneaker catches on a lumpy but stable root, bearing her weight without trouble. 

“Harley, you fucking dumbass!” Frank roars from the rooftop. 

Harley ignores him. Cool air blows against her side, warm sweat trickles down her back. The vines give a little with every shift and step, groaning as they take her weight, but they don’t break. They won’t, so long as she moves quickly. 

“Don’t look down,” she murmurs as she lowers herself, feels around with her other foot until she finds a sturdy creeper to support the rest of her weight. Wearing the gardening gloves is a trade-off—less grip, but solid protection from thorns and splinters that could otherwise compromise her holds. They’ll stay, she decides. For now. 

_It’s like rock climbing_ , she tells herself, lowering one gloved hand to curl around another knotted vine. _Except… backwards, and on the side of a building. Without a harness_.

Despite herself, she grins. She’s always been an exceptional rock-climber. 

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [LOLA MACINTIRE](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Lola_MacIntire_\(Prime_Earth\)) is a former showgirl and longtime friend of selina's. she doesn't appear in any tv shows or movies as far as i know, but she is a character in the catwoman comics. she has historically helped selina out of tight spots whether that be by providing accommodations, information, etc. later, she is killed by bone after selina steals something from him.
> 
> [LOUIS FERRYMAN](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Louis_Ferryman_\(Prime_Earth\)) (aka BONE) is a mob boss in gotham city. he doesn't appear in any tv shows or movies as far as i know, but he is a character in the comics, and a known enemy of catwoman after killing selina's longtime friend lola macintire as he sought revenge on selina for stealing from him.


	16. world on fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Floyd rises from the wreckage to fire, fire, everywhere. Harley gets creative with finding a means of transportation to Old Gotham. Selina scrambles to escape Bone and his goons. 
> 
> Oh, and back at the penthouse, Ivy and Tatsu come across problems of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TATSU YAMASHIRO (aka [KATANA](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katana_\(comics\))) is written with largely [karen fukuhara's portayal](https://dcextendeduniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Katana) of her from _suicide squad_ in mind. in this story, i've written her as a tentative ally of ivy's. 
> 
> [AMANDA WALLER](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amanda_Waller) also appears in this chapter—not in person, but as a prominent point of a discussion between tatsu and ivy. i've written this with [viola davis's portrayal](https://dcextendeduniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Amanda_Waller) of her from _suicide squad_ in mind.

**VERONICA**

The blast in Old Gotham reverberates all throughout the city. Hell, Veronica hears it all the way over in East Side. 

_Not_ what she paid for. 

“Fuck,” she curses, tosses her napkin down onto a half-full plate. She _really_ isn’t hungry anymore. 

She’s gotta disappear, _yesterday_. 

_Fucking incompetent low-level goons_. 

♠ ♠ ♠ 

**FLOYD**

Floyd wakes to black smoke, fire all around, and an absolutely killer headache. There’s a deafening white noise in his ears, the kind that comes after he fucked around and got a little too close to an explosion—a big one, at that. 

He’s on his back, his bottom half trapped beneath a hefty-looking chunk of concrete. There’s a throbbing ache in his left knee, and his other ankle is stuck twisted at a weird-ass angle, but the fact that he can feel any of that at all is a good sign. 

A thin layer of grey ash blankets his shooting hand up to the forearm. He can feel it searing his flesh, but the burn will be minor and it’s cooling by the second. His favorite pistol lies just out of reach, coated with a dusty-looking layer of grey; though, he figures it wouldn’t do much good if he _could_ reach it. No shooting his way out of this one. 

The old family-run Chinese joint wherein which they’d met is half blown to hell, walls blackened with singe marks, flames engulfing what precious little of it managed to stay unburnt this long. Floyd looks up and sees a sky on fire through a gaping hole in one corner of what used to be the ceiling. 

By some miracle, his upper half is largely unburdened. The round table’s slanted off-balance and digging into his chest, but a prompt twist and shove takes care of that with relatively little trouble. 

And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a bit of rebar sticking out from a pile of detritus directly to his left. He has to strain a bit to reach it, but he manages. Gets a solid grip around the end, yanks hard with all his might. The pile of concrete shifts as he manages to pull it free, a mini avalanche of dust and concrete chunks raining down on him. 

He thinks he hears someone groan in response nearby, but he doesn’t care. Fries, Crane, Zsasz, Sionis, Penguin… Assholes.

He turns his head to hack out a couple coughs as cinders breach his lungs, scraping his throat raw from the inside out. 

Soon enough, though, the dust settles once more, and he’s left with a mangled length of rebar, a weighty chunk of concrete crushing his thighs, and a chemical fire all around that’ll have him out and dead in minutes if he doesn’t free himself in time. 

Depending on how overboard Penguin went with the chemical weed killer (and it’s lookin’ like he went pretty damn far overboard), all of Old Gotham will be up in flames come nightfall. Which is gonna be a problem, not only for everyone unlucky enough to be living here, but something more important—some _one_ more important: the kid. _Harley’s_ kid. 

_Fuck_. 

Looks like he’s got his work cut out for him. 

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

**HARLEY**

She’s about thirty levels down (with still another twenty to go, if she has to guesstimate) by the time it starts to get scary. She ditched the gloves ten floors back after her grip slipped and damn near sent her careening headfirst to go _splat_ on the pavement. 

Her arms shake from the strain of holding herself aloft, hot sweat dribbles down her neck and back in a constant stream. Pain spreads through her muscles like wildfire, and every step seems to wound her something awful. 

Not to mention, her body’s still the farthest thing from healed. Salty sweat burns like rubbing alcohol as it trickles into the bloodied bite marks along her throat. The stretch and strain of her constant movement tears the scabs on her back wide open until she can’t tell whether the rivulets leaking down her spine are perspiration or blood. 

The split in her lower lip ripped open about ten floors ago, dribbling blood down her chin and making every instinctive swipe of the tongue along her lips hurt like a bitch. 

She rushes herself to move faster and faster as she gets further down, making slipping and falling a very real concern. But she also knows that going slow and steady will only further sap her already depleted energy, and she’d very much like to get as close to ground level as she can before her arms give out. 

The toes of her (Ivy’s) sneakers are brushing up against the first-floor windows when it happens. Her arms go numb (though they’re still trembling enough to make her entire body shudder), and she knows her grip around the vines is slipping by the second. 

_Here goes nothing_. She glances over her shoulder at slabs of pavement, lowers herself a little further on the vines, and drops. 

Her legs are already bent when her feet hit the pavement, but the sheer force of the impact jolts all the way up to the crown of her head regardless. She also miscalculated her drop just a little, because a second later, residual momentum is pitching her face directly forward. 

She just barely gets her hands there in time to keep herself from face-planting, which saves her money-maker the road rash—though she can’t say the same for the rest of her. 

“Fuck!” she curses as both knees mash themselves into the pavement and gravel digs its way into her palms. 

_That’s gonna leave a fuckin’ mark_.

She just manages to shift her weight, then shove herself up and back—

“Oof!” she groans as she falls back ass-first onto the pavement, head spinning. 

A distant police siren plays in her ears, and she shakes her head to make it go away. It doesn’t. In fact, it actually seems to be getting... _louder?_

A second later, a GCPD cruiser pulls up to the curb with a deafening _screech_. Its lights flash, its siren blares, and Harley’s head _pounds_.

The driver’s side door opens, and a boy in blue steps out of the cruiser—short brown hair, wispy mustache, bushy brows creased in concern. 

He runs over. “Ma’am, are you alright?” he asks, crouching down to her level. He smells like Old Spice and cigarettes. “Do you need help?”

Harley licks her lips, then winces at the stab of pain that follows. She feels like screaming, yelling horrible things at this man to make him and his stupid cruiser _shut up_ , but she holds her tongue. She’s gotten real good at that. 

Instead, she eyes the policeman, his gun, the police cruiser idling behind him on the street. All at once, a plan takes shape amidst her scattered thoughts. 

“Ma’am?” the officer asks again, hands held up and out as if to show that he’s not a threat, that he won’t hurt her. 

She shakes her head vigorously, summoning tears to splash down either of her bruised cheeks. “Y-Yes, officer, p-please help me,” she sobs pathetically, hugging her shivering body and looking up at him with big, desperate, puppy-dog eyes. 

“Oh—I—Yes, of course, Miss,” the officer stammers, practically falling over himself in his haste to get his arms around her and help her up. “Here, c’mon, you’re safe now...”

Her fingers curl around the grip of his Glock as he pulls her to her feet, whispering meaningless platitudes to her all the while. She buries her face into his shoulder and does another hiccup-y sob for good measure even as her lips stretch into a wide grin. 

Like taking candy from a baby. 

— —

**SELINA**

You know, one would think that a massive explosion rocking Old Gotham just two streets down (never mind the roaring flames that followed) would be enough to justify putting a metaphorical pin in whatever Bone wanted with her for the moment… at the very least, a brief time-out. 

No such luck. 

The moment they’ve all got their wits about them, Selina gets an approximately two-second long headstart to swing herself over the rooftop and out of sight before scores of bullets start spraying the air. In her haste to avoid being in the line of fire, she damn near takes a spill down onto the pavement twelve stories below. Luckily, though, years of expertise kicks in, and she’s able to grip the ledge of the rooftop with both hands before getting to work kicking the shit out of the twelfth-floor window. 

She probably looks pretty damn stupid hanging off the side of a building, boots slamming against the glass, legs flailing about like a hysterical child who didn’t get their way, but she’s got other things to worry about. 

She estimates she’s got about three seconds before the goons sprint over to the edge of the rooftop and continue shooting over the side, so she’s gotta get this window business sorted out, stat. 

_Crack_ goes the window below ( _finally_ ), and her subsequent kick shatters the glass completely with a resounding _Crash!_

In a perfect world, she’d like an extra second or two to kick her boot along the top of the window frame, take care of any residual glass shards before swinging herself inside. She’d also have appreciated an extra second or two on top of _that_ to push off the brick a couple times, build up her momentum to take the leap… but, alas. 

If wishes were horses… 

It’s a little awkward, but she’s handled worse. She keeps her grip on the ledge tight, surges forward with her feet, trusts the rest of her body to follow after. Her lower back hits the bottom of the window pane hard enough to expel all the air from her lungs in a rush, and she can feel the residual shards of glass tearing through her suit and skin as she yanks herself inside—which hurts like a bitch, obviously, but she’s a big girl. She can handle it. 

And not a second too soon, it seems, as a volley of bullets sprays the pavement twelve stories down behind her. Hopping down from the window, she doesn’t bother to assess the damage to her suit or the trickle of blood she can feel running down her spine. There’s no time. 

She’s landed in a storage room, it seems—hardwood floors, cardboard boxes, an old upright piano sitting in one corner. All are blanketed in a thick layer of dust, as if nobody’s been there for a very long time. 

Shaking that thought off, she darts over to the door on soundless feet, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake. 

Undoes the deadbolt with a _click_ , carefully eases open the door, slips out into the hallway beyond. 

All the while, she can hear muffled arguing from the rooftop above, and she knows it’s just a matter of time before Bone and the Wonder Twins are tearing back down the stairs to have another go at her. 

As far as she can tell, there’s no elevator to be seen. Unfortunate, but she isn’t sure she’d trust it enough to use if there were one. There’s a stairwell access door at the other end of the hall, though, and she makes her way toward that with pursed lips. 

Twelve floors down, Old Gotham burning, Bone and his SMG-toting goons hot on her heels. Oh, and nine-year-old Eli across the street.

Time to get those daily steps in. 

/// /// /// 

**HARLEY**

Okay, Harley will be the first to say that she’s ~~kind of~~ a shitty driver. 

She actually isn’t licensed to drive at all, anywhere, let alone Gotham, but… details. Who needs ‘em?

It takes her a bit of deliberation to figure out that the skinny pedal on the right is for gas, and the hamburger-style one on the left is for braking. She gets lucky with the parking brake, ‘cause Officer What’s-His-Name didn’t bother engaging it before jumping out of the car to help her, so she doesn’t need to worry about that at all. 

From there, it’s pretty simple. Shift the PRNDL from the P (‘Park’) to the D (‘Drive’), slam two feet on the gas, and they’re off to the races. 

Officer Do-Gooder is handcuffed in the trunk sporting no shirt and a killer headache while Harley tears through the streets wearing his button-down police uniform, Glock sitting in the cupholder.

There’s also a cup of shitty gas station coffee (lukewarm), but Harley takes a single sip and damn near yaks everywhere ‘cause turns out, he takes it black. Gross. 

There’s a fancy-looking screen mounted on the dash with a little walkie-talkie-type thing mounted on the side, but Harley ignores it for the most part. 

All that’s left for her to do is follow the rising smoke from Old Gotham, avoid hitting too many pedestrians along the way, and pray she’ll get there in time. 

— —

**TATSU**

Tatsu frowns and leans further back in her seat, gaze narrowed on Dr. Pamela Isley (a tentative—and powerful—ally since her unheralded arrival in Gotham city a month prior). “You do not know the magnitude of what you ask.”

Pamela, to her credit, remains impassive—though the slight tick in her jaw betrays the situation’s urgency. “Joker is an institution in Gotham. The city has become his in everything but name,” she concedes. 

Tatsu arches a single brow. She’s played this game many times before. “But?” 

“But he is far from infallible; and his reach, while bordering on absolute, is deeply unbalanced.”

“Joker thrives on imbalance,” Tatsu points out, neither disagreeing nor agreeing.

“And that’s precisely the problem, no?” Pamela asks. “One moment.” She brandishes a smart phone from the inside pocket of her blazer, takes a quick glance at the time before promptly storing it away once more. She seems preoccupied, Tatsu notes. She has since they started. “It’s a simple maxim of being, a _universal scientific law_ which dictates that balance in all things is foreordained… inevitable.”

“I wasn’t exactly a star student in school, but I believe Joker is that which would be referred to as something of an anomaly,” Tatsu counters evenly, regarding Pamela carefully over the tabletop. “Gotham changed irrevocably when he rose to power—in part due to the power vacuum his late predecessor left behind, but largely because his will was stronger than that of those which came before him. He’s thwarted this ubiquitous rationale for the better part of the last decade, and done so to the utmost extremes.” 

“And yet, the fact remains that nothing lasts forever. His reign will end, as all things do.”

Frustration prickles beneath her skin. It’s only years of discipline that keeps it in check. “Dr. Isley, there is a saying in my culture… _Nito o oumono wa itto o mo ezu_.” 

“What does it mean?”

“‘One who chases after two hares will not catch even one.’”

Pamela is quiet for a short time, until: “You think me unwise to provoke the Joker.” The temerity underlying her words implies that she does not much care either way.

“You are still tender-footed in this city. There are many things you have yet to learn.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather out of time for gathering wisdom.”

Tatsu nods, like that’s entirely reasonable. (It isn’t.) “Would this have anything to do with the Joker’s… painted lady?”

“Of course it does,” Pamela snaps. “It has _everything_ to do with her.” 

Her blunt honesty is refreshing. Her short fuse, however, reveals a notable lack of discipline. “Do you know of a woman named Amanda Waller?”

“High-ranking government officiant, an administrative force particularly as it concerns enhanced individuals.” Pamela frowns, leaning forward in her seat. For the very first time since they’d begun, Tatsu can feel that she has Pamela’s full undivided attention. “As far as I can gather, A.R.G.U.S. is the one holding her leash.”

Tatsu feels her lips twitch, threatening a smile. “Someone did their homework.”

“What does she have to do with Harley?” Pamela inquires impatiently.

“Task Force X. Ever heard of it?”

“Let’s assume I haven’t.”

“‘The worst of the worst.’ A team of very dangerous people hand-picked by Amanda Waller herself to fight the uglier battles before they can take American lives. Harley… is one of eight distinguished individuals who have been selected for this initiative. Officially, they are Task Force X—headed up by Colonel Rick Flag.”

Pamela just stares, her dark gaze quickly bordering on murderous. “And unofficially?”

“The ‘Suicide Squad.’”

“Because loss of life is acceptable when it comes to vagrants, freaks, and scoundrels.”

“Something like that. The way Waller sees it, they’re… expendable. What’s more, they won’t shy away from unconventional methods when push comes to shove.”

“You almost sound as though you endorse this… ‘Suicide Squad’ initiative.” Pamela practically spits each word out, distaste coloring each syllable. 

“I don’t,” Tatsu negates with a shrug. “But I know better than to throw myself in front of a moving train solely because I don’t like where it’s headed.”

“Easy to say when you have no skin in the game,” Pamela points out, her intonation wrought with reproof. 

Tatsu resists the urge to snort inelegantly. If only she knew. “I suppose you’re right. And yet, the reality of the situation is that inevitably, Waller’s agenda will directly counteract that of Joker’s.”

“Is she enhanced?”

“No… not she’s ever let that curb her ambition.”

“You think she’ll trump Joker.”

“I think she’ll _rattle_ him,” Tatsu corrects. “In many ways, that warrants even more cause for concern. The fallout of this is… unpredictable, to say the very least.”

“All the more reason to make my move beforehand, no?”

Tatsu pointedly resists the urge to groan. “You’ve already drawn enough attention to yourself as is,” she asserts as evenly as she can. “Your… _abilities_ may not be public knowledge in any sense of the phrase, but at the rate you’re going, that won’t last. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Pamela says, nodding. “I just don’t care.”

Tatsu bites back a sigh. _Stubborn woman_. “In that case, it would behoove you to—”

_**BOOM!**_

The rest of her sentence is swallowed up in a deafening roar as a considerable blast shakes the penthouse. 

Tatsu and Pamela are both thrown to the floor, chairs crashing after them. It’s only years of training that allows Tatsu to catch herself before getting hit with a face full of marble. 

“Fuck,” Pamela curses from somewhere to Tatsu’s left, but she’s far more concerned with locating the source of the blast. As far as she can tell, it’d come from the entrance to Pamela’s stately abode—a massive tree trunk inlaid with circular door-shaped grooves and molten silver. 

Shrieking white noise overlays everything as Tatsu rises to her feet—the roaring fire, the muffled shouts, the _pop-pop-pop_ of semi-automatic gunfire.

She draws her katana—Soultaker—from its sheath without haste, drawing an instinctual comfort from the trapped souls that whisper to her from within the blade. 

Smoke pours through tiny cracks in the gargantuan trunk that constitutes the entrance to the loft. The wood visibly shudders beneath the strain as another deafening eruption sounds. 

_**FWOOM!**_

More gunfire, a flaming burst of dust and wood and debris from the front door. Tatsu drops into a roll, intent on reaching cover. She finds it a second later, back pressed up against a marble column just a stone’s throw from the swampy reservoir in the foyer. 

Tatsu sniffs the air, then immediately regrets it. Everything reeks of smoke. “You have a plan?” she calls out, catching a flurry of movement as Isley’s green figure ducks behind the kitchen counter. 

“Rooftop!” Isley calls back. More gunfire. 

_‘Rooftop’? Is she trying to get us cornered?_

Tatsu chances a peek around the column. Orange flames engulf the colossal tree trunk; plumes of grey smoke rise steadily from the burning wood. As she watches, another resounding blast splinters a substantial portion of the trunk clean in two with an ear-splitting snap. 

The timber parts in a sea of fire to reveal a crew of armed men wearing all-black garb and matching white masks—thick painted brows and toothy red-lipped grins hovering in a mist of ashen smoke. Joker’s men.

“Looks like time’s up,” Tatsu grumbles, then turns and pulls herself flush up against the column once more. 

Isley peeks over the countertop, making direct eye contact with Tatsu. Then, she promptly takes off and disappears down a nearby hallway. “Follow me!”

Tatsu growls, glancing over her shoulder to the approaching men then back to the hallway through which Isley had vanished. 

The choice is clear, even if she doesn’t much like it. 

She pushes off the wall and takes off after Isley at a dead sprint. 

〇 〇 〇

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harley really said 'fuck the police' huh
> 
> 二兎を追う者は一兎をも得ず | _nito o oumono wa itto o mo ezu_ | "one who chases after two hares will not catch even one" [japanese proverb]


	17. scramble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Floyd makes his way over towards Eli and runs into a familiar face. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Tatsu and Ivy are just trying to get themselves out of Joker's crosshairs, and Harley still sucks at driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ONYX ADAMS](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Onyx_Adams_\(New_Earth\)) is introduced briefly in this chapter. she's a former long-time member of the league of assassins, and an old friend of floyd lawton's. as far as i know, she's only appeared in the comics.

**FLOYD**

If Old Gotham was a wasteland before, it’s a damn hellscape now. 

Fire everywhere, smoke in the air. The smell of it alone is enough to make his gut churn with nausea. 

Still… Just another day in the life, right?

He yanks up the collar of his polo, uses it to cover his nose and mouth as he sprints through the wreckage, SIG MPX in hand. There’s a suppressor in his jean pocket—at least that’s something. He screws it on the barrel as he books it through a gauntlet of burning vehicles. Not for the first time, he takes a second to bemoan the fact that he hadn’t been wearing his tac suit during the blast. 

It’s almost funny. He wears it most all the time where business is involved, and the one day he decides not to… Well. Life sure has a confounded sense of humor. 

He knows where Joker’s been keeping Harley’s little boy—an old run-down apartment building on Bleaker Road. Hell, he spent a couple shifts covering the place while the little dude slept. 

He’s not proud of it, ‘course, but he’d figured it was one way to ensure the kid’s safety until he could think of something better. 

So much for that. 

Old Gotham’s on fire, some asshole blew up a meeting of Joker’s guys (which yes, unfortunately includes him), and… well. People are gonna be dead after this, and if Floyd doesn’t get there fast enough, that’ll include Eli. 

Nah. Fuck that. 

He’ll get there in time. He has to. 

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

It’s slower going than he’d like, hauling ass over to that shithole Joker rented on Bleaker. 

‘Course, it probably doesn’t help that he stops to make a call along the way, but that’s unavoidable. After all, somebody’s gotta let Harley know what’s going on, even if it means she’ll probably be running head-first into the firefight faster than Floyd can say, “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.”

Still, besides that, it ain’t exactly a straight shot. 

Floyd damn near breaks his leg toting some lady and her teenage daughter down three flights of stairs through an apartment building on fire. Singes some of his damn beard off, too. 

He gets a pretty serious burn on one side of his neck clearing out an old folks’ home a block east. Two ladies are passed out from smoke inhalation by the time he’s got everyone out across the street on a relatively non-fire-y section of sidewalk. He runs back in afterwards, borrows the landline inside to call the GCPD, gives ‘em the address to find the old geezers.

Lastly, he manages to corral this Siberian Husky roaming the streets, smoke rising from his singed hindquarters. He pries off the rusted-over outlet from a nearby fire hydrant with another handy piece of rebar, fiddles and pokes at it until it’s spewing water. Then he takes the furry guy’s leash, ties it around the base. Surrounded by water, barking like mad… Floyd figures he’ll be alright until help comes. 

Fuck his bleeding heart.

The familiar sound of gunfire filters through the roar of chemical fire as he turns the corner, sets eyes on a familiar street blown half to hell. _Eli_.

He checks over his SMG, twists the suppressor a little to make sure it hasn’t come loose. And then… well. Then, he runs into the fire. 

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

**ONYX**

She’s trailing after her mark on a rented (read: stolen) bike when she gets the call. 

Second phone, no ringtone. _Floyd_. 

She heaves a sigh but manages to steer with one hand while the other wedges its way up into her helmet, taps the Bluetooth earpiece. 

“Your girl just stole a police cruiser,” she says in lieu of greeting, not bothering to hide the note of begrudging approval from her tone. Her lips twitch as the girl in question hops a curb, mows over a nearby bike rack with several _clangs!_ and the telltale groan of metal giving way beneath considerable force. “She can’t drive for shit. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“A police cruiser?” Floyd repeats. His voice sounds strained. “The fuck is Harley doing?”

“She’s angling for Old Gotham, far as I can tell,” Onyx reports, eyeing the plumes of black smoke in the sky, cool wind whipping against her cheeks. “Never pegged her as the type to run into the fire rather than away from it.”

“You’d be surprised,” Floyd answers, sounding caught somewhere between pride and annoyance.

“Yeah, yeah.” Onyx rolls her eyes, swerves around an illegally parked Mazda, still hot on Harley’s trail. “Now, what’s up? You never call out of the blue, not unless something’s up with Harley. Far as I can tell, she’s fine, if not a little scraped up. Where are you?”

“Old Gotham.”

“Ah. Joker business?”

“Something like that,” he relents. He sounds exhausted… Though, from the way flames are eating Old Gotham like wildfire up ahead, she doesn’t much blame him. “Look, I need you to keep following Harley—make sure she gets here safe.”

She snorts. “Isn’t that what I always do? Follow your girl, make sure she doesn’t get herself killed?”

“She doesn’t know where she’s going.” He doesn’t add, _‘And she’s not my girl,’_ though he wants to. 

“Well, she’s sure driving like she does.”

“907 East Bleaker Road. I want the both of you to meet me there. You got that?”

“I’ll drag her ass there if I have to.”

“That ain’t funny.”

“Good thing it’s not a joke.”

“Just… take care of it, Nyx. Alright?”

“Aw. Good talking to you, too.”

She shuts the phone with a _click_ , pockets it and stomps on the gas. It would seem she’s got a runaway stripper to babysit. 

⼑ ⼑ ⼑

**SELINA**

She makes it down to street level with little trouble—that is, if you don’t count Bone and his goons thundering down the stairs two floors behind her as ‘trouble’. 

The roaring flames have reached Bleaker, sending blackened smoke billowing up into gloomy skies overhead. Selina gets a concentrated whiff of it and immediately wrinkles her nose. Definitely a chemical fire. 

From there, it’s a bit of a crapshoot—only one viable option. Book it across the street without an inch of cover in sight, hope she makes it over and into the apartment building without getting shot first. No time to lie in wait or set a trap. 

If she hesitates, she’s dead. If she doesn’t, there’s a distinct possibility she’ll still be dead regardless. 

Either way, she’s gotta try. For Eli and Harley, if nothing else. 

With that final thought, she bursts out onto the street. Reloads her Glock, palms a throwing knife, then takes off at a dead sprint. 

_Here goes nothing_.

/// /// /// 

**FLOYD**

Just as he’s making his approach past a series of burning buildings (mostly abandoned, thankfully), he sees it: a familiar figure darting across the street. Black cat-suit, night-vision goggles, cheekbones cut from glass. Damn fast, too. No whip in sight, but then again, Floyd’s not sporting any of his calling cards either. 

Catwoman. Or… Selina, though she’d probably kick him in the balls if he ever called her that to her face.

Not an enemy by any stretch of the imagination, but not exactly an ally, either. 

Regardless, Floyd doesn’t exactly get a moment to decide how he’s gonna handle it. Almost as soon as he spots Selina, a trio of armed goons in matching pinstriped suits stumble out of a building just opposite the apartment. They’re packing heat, too. 

A closer look tells him it’s more trouble than he originally thought—two ugly ass dudes who read more like henchmen than anything else flanking the big man in the middle. A massive, hulking, _unit_ of a man who looks like he’s made of cracked stone. Glowing red eyes, bulging muscles that’d put even Batman’s to shame. 

Yeah, Floyd knows the guy—Bone. Mob boss, professional asshole… just an overall unpleasant guy to be around. Never had the pleasure of meeting him face-to-face, but Floyd’s heard more than enough about him in years past to know the guy’s bad news. (Then again, aren’t they all, himself included?) 

To Selina’s credit, she’s not by any means caught unawares. A couple strides from the sidewalk, she twists to hurl a knife behind her—nails the string bean on the left in the chest, doesn’t linger to watch him crumple. 

Right on the heels of that comes a dented silver canister—thin, relatively small, bounces right off of Bone’s barrel chest with a little _plink_ as he levels his Spectre SMG. Kinda looks like a flashb—

_BANG!_

It erupts in a wispy cloud of pale-white smoke at Gigantor’s feet, blinding Bone and his goons (including the downed one writhing on the pavement) in a thunderous 180-decibel roar. They don’t drop the guns (unfortunate), but Bone and his remaining henchman stumble back, eyes screwed shut, roaring into nothing. 

Still, doesn’t discount the fact that flashbangs are a temporary fix—five, ten seconds at most. Bone and his other goon are still packing heat, and by the looks of things, they’re out for blood. 

He estimates Selina’s got about two seconds tops before the two of them start hip-firing at random, and frisky or not, he doesn’t like those odds for her. 

Floyd huffs out a sigh, kneels himself over a crack in the pavement… takes aim. 

Two targets, a full mag, smoke in his lungs. 

He’s never been one to miss, and he doesn’t intend to start now.

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

**SELINA**

She nails String Bean with one of Eiko’s throwing knives right in the sternum, hears him drop like a sack of bricks on the pavement with a startled yelp. Chucks a flashbang over her shoulder a second later, hears it go off with a bang before Bone and his remaining goon can get back to shooting.

Still, she knows it only buys her another second or two at most, because Bone’s never been one for precision work.

The first-floor window she’s gunning for is a good five strides away (not to mention it’s _closed_ ), and the bullets are gonna start flying at any second, which means she’s pretty much done for unless Bone and Goon #2 suddenly forget which way is up.

Well. Stranger things have happened, no?

She’s just hopped up onto the pavement when—

_Chk-chk!_ Semi-automatic gunfire— _suppressed_. Purely on instinct, she drops into a crouch, her ribs creaking and throbbing at the sudden move. A high-pitched squeal comes from somewhere behind her, and another body drops… _Goon #2_.

She whirls around just in time, handgun at the ready, to see a dark fist-sized pellet stick itself to one of Bone’s gigantic quads as he sprays the air with bullets. _What the_ —

_**FWOOM!** _

She turns, barely bringing both arms up in time to cover her head as the heat of an explosion surges over her like a tidal wave. The blast wave hits her like a sucker punch to the gut a half a second later, throwing her back off her feet and into the air. 

She hits the pavement _hard_ , shoulder-first with a strangled “Oof!” that steals the remaining breath from her burning lungs in a punched-out rush. 

She rolls over just in time to glimpse the aftermath: Bone in a crumpled heap on the other side of the street, downed goons flanking him on either side, blackened singe marks marring the pavement all around.

_Who_ —?

“Hey!” A man jogs his way over, comes to loom over her where she’s sprawled back ass-first on the pavement. He looks… familiar somehow. Bald head, singed beard, tawny-brown skin. His eyes are squinted, filled with concern as they take her in. “You a’ight?” 

She groans, props herself up on her elbows to get a good look at him… catches sight of the SMG in his hands with a suppressor screwed on the barrel, a safety ring (likely from that of a grenade) hanging from one of his bruised knuckles. All of a sudden, it clicks.  
_Lawton_.

Her head pounds, black spots dance in her vision. Everything reeks of smoke. “I had that,” she grumbles, looking up to fix him with her best glare.

He snorts, offers her his free hand even as he scans their surroundings. “Never doubted you for a second.”

She rolls her eyes but accepts the invitation, lets him pull her up to her feet. Her head spins, her legs feel like Jell-O, and heaven knows the continued hits she’s weathered aren’t exactly doing wonders for her cracked ribs—but she’s got a job to do, and fuck it all, but she damn well intends to get it done. 

“The hell you doing here, Lawton?”

He shrugs, retracts his hand to brandish a fresh mag from his leather jacket and reload. “Same as you, I reckon. Someone’s gotta pull Harley’s little guy outta the fire.”

Selina rolls her eyes but otherwise doesn’t argue. He may be one of Joker’s hired guns, but his affection for Harley is genuine—always has been. A glance back down the street tells her they’ve got maybe two minutes to get the kid out before the whole building goes up in flames. 

No time for idle chit-chat. No time for a fist-fight, either. 

“Fine,” she grumbles, slipping out another knife and creeping towards the entrance—a simple wooden door with a brass knocker. Locked, of course. She lifts her Glock, takes out the bolt with a _BANG_. Kicks in the door, spares another quick glance down the street to gauge the fire’s progress. 115 seconds. “Cover me,” she tells Lawton, before promptly vanishing inside. 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

/// /// /// 

**HARLEY**

It’s nearing something like 5:00 in the evening. The molten sun is starting its descent in a sky that can’t seem to decide between cloudy, partly sunny, and billowing with blackened smoke. 

She loses the passenger’s side mirror in a close-call with the business end of a garbage truck on the outskirts of Old Gotham, but the cruiser’s in one piece and she hasn’t hit anyone yet, so she takes it as a win. 

She also found out how to switch the loud-as-hell siren off, so it isn’t screaming in her ears like it was before. _Double_ win. 

Detective Do-Gooder’s button-down uni is at least three sizes too big on her, and it smells just like him (Old Spice and stale cigarettes and man sweat), but she figures it’s better than nothing. Plus, it’s still got the shiny police-man badge pinned to the breast, which she thinks is pretty neat. All she’s missing is the hat and a nightstick. 

She’s just crossed over into Old Gotham proper, flanked by burning buildings on either side, when it happens. 

Some helmeted asshole zooms past her on a motorbike, turns directly into her path, and slides to a screeching halt—directly in front of her fuckin’ car! Well, not exactly hers, but she still stole it fair and square, so what the _fuck_ ?! 

“Oh, _shit_ !” Harley shrieks, slams both feet on what she prays is the brake pedal. The car lurches, there’s a hair-raising screech of rubber against asphalt, and the cruiser just manages to squeal to a stop before making contact with the other (asshole) driver. 

Harley’s halfway out the door by the time Mr. Fast & Furious dismounts, yanking off his helmet to reveal—

Oh. Mr. Fast & Furious isn’t a ‘Mr.’ at all. It— _She_ —is a beautiful black lady with intense cat-like eyes and non-existent hair. 

And this, too—she’s stalking towards Harley with a purpose, glaring her down like she’s out for blood. The various guns strapped to her hip, thighs and ankle alongside the knife she’s spinning in one hand like she damn well knows how to use it also doesn’t bode well for Harley. 

Harley ducks, lunges back into the car, then reappears levelling Officer Helps-a-Lot’s Glock directly at the pretty (intimidating) lady’s face. She doesn’t flinch. 

“That’s far enough,” Harley snaps when the woman is just a couple feet away, heartbeat hammering against her bruised ribcage. 

She concedes, halting where she stands, though she seems more amused than anything else. Her sharp manicured nails drum idly atop the hood of the cruiser as she tilts her head, appraising Harley with cool, assessing brown eyes. 

Harley grips the gun a little tighter, wills her voice not to tremble when she asks, “Who the _hell_ are you?” 

— —

**IVY**

She makes it to the roof, Tatsu hot on her heels, then stumbles out onto the lawn and searches wildly about for a sign of Harley… only to find that she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, what the fuck?” she curses under her breath even as another explosion from downstairs rocks the building, causing her to stumble on her feet. 

“Ivy! Finally!” Frank exclaims from where he’s leaned up against the trunk of the cherry blossom tree. There’s a bundled-up wad of fabric sitting just next to him on the lawn that looks suspiciously like the T-shirt she’d lent Harley for her chores. “Who the _fuck_ is blowin’ up our crib?”

_‘ Our’?!_

“Frank, where the _fuck_ is Harley?” Ivy snaps, running over to the edge of the roof and peering over the side. Nothing. She whirls around, fixes Frank with a heavy-browed glower. “ _Frank_.”

“She saw the flames in Old Gotham, got to climbing!” Frank shouts back. “I _told_ her ass to stay here—”

“Wh—?” Frustration swells in her chest, white-hot needles pricking along her spine. Moreover: “Old _Gotham_ ?!”

“It’s on fire!” Frank exclaims shrilly, flower-eye limbs flailing about. “Didn’t you hear the big-ass explosion?”

Ivy turns to glance over her shoulder, has to choke back a scream at the sight of coal-black smoke drifting into the skies… Sure enough, from Old Gotham. _Are you fucking_ —

Another explosion rocks the building, damn near pitching Ivy face-first to the ground… which would be a shame, especially as it seems Harley had done a damn good job of weeding out all that horsenettle from the garden beds. 

_Harley_. 

“Isley!” Tatsu yells. Ivy whips back around to see her hauling Frank up with one arm while she brandishes her whispering sword with the other. _Impressive, considering Frank’s the farthest thing from light_. “We need to go _now_ !”

“Fuck!” Ivy curses to no one in particular, hands fisting at clumps of her own tousled hair until her scalp _burns_. 

“ISLEY!” Tatsu roars. 

“Yeah, okay! I get it!” she yells back, leaning to peer over the edge of the roof once more. “C’mon.” She gestures over for Tatsu to follow, vision blurred with red around the edges. “Over the side of the roof, let’s go.”

“The side of the _roof_ ?” Frank repeats. “Oh, _fuck_ no—!”

Another explosion followed by the deafening _crunch!_ of building collapsing a couple floors down. 

“NOW!” Ivy roars. 

No one lodges any further complaints after that.

🜃 🜃 🜃

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> used ⼑ (dāo) for onyx's chapter because it's the chinese radical for 'knife,' and her storied history in the league of assassins would mean she trained in nanda parbat, which is in the himalayas along the southern border of china. idk dude i was running out of symbols okay
> 
> happy almost new year, i guess?


	18. closing in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck— _Shit_ —Jesus, Ivy, can’t you get us outta here a little faster?”
> 
> “Shut up, Frank,” Ivy growls—not that it does any good. 
> 
> “Oh, _I’m_ sorry, Carrot Top,” Frank spews back immediately, righteous indignation coloring his shrill tone. “Excuse me for not being happy-go- _fucking_ -lucky about the fact that we’re all currently plummeting to our deaths!”
> 
> Tatsu turns back, shoots the potted plant a hard glare before settling on Ivy. “Can you shut him up?”
> 
> “Lady, I will _eat_ you!”
> 
> Or: Harley makes a choice, Floyd and Selina form a tentative alliance, and Tatsu's got something up her sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay sorry for the delay, kids
> 
> i was agonizing for a bit over how exactly i wanted this to end... i had three possible endings to choose from, and this chapter is very much the beginning of that end, so i didn't want to post it until i was sure where i was going with it
> 
> anyways, thank you for your patience, okay, it means the absolute world
> 
> that said, this chapter is a little on the shorter side now that i know what's going to happen, but it's kind of necessary as a filler to set everything up

**JOKER**

A pull of whiskey straight from the bottle burns a warm trail down his gullet. It’s not hot enough. It doesn’t hurt enough. He chucks the bottle somewhere behind him, hears it shatter against the tile. 

He looks up, catches sight of a jester’s likeness in the cracked mirror—ghost-pale features, gaunt eye sockets stained with black, lips the color of freshly-spilt blood grinning from ear to ear.

A snicker rises in his throat. He swallows it before it can turn into a cackle. 

“Hey, boss!” comes the slurred voice of some nameless pea-brained jackass who should damn well know better than to speak unless spoken to. 

Jay catches the idiot’s eye in the cracked mirror, licks his lips, spits a combination of saliva and blood into the sink. 

He’s got a revolver tucked in the waistband of his slacks and five more bullets. 

A shot through the idiot’s eye blows his socket and makes it four. 

He steps over the body, all careful-like so as not to get any blood on his good shoes. “Someone clean this joker up,” he sneers, then snorts. Joker. 

Joker. 

Three other idiots are in the lounge of the apartment, guns at the ready, nervous looks on their powdered faces. They all jolt into action the moment he gives the order. 

Scared little pups. They can live. For now. 

One of them’s looking at him a little funny. That deer in the headlights look, like he’s got something to say but he’s scared shitless to say it.

The other two keep exchanging glances with each other, like they know what he’s about to say, and they’re shitting their pants about it, too. 

Jay sighs, cocks his revolver, and takes aim—right at the head. 

Are you supposed to shoot a deer in the head?

Eh. Dead is dead. 

“What is it, Jimbo?” Jay asks in a sing-song tone, lips pursed with annoyance. “Don’t make me ask again.”

“I-It’s, um, H-Harley,” he sputters, perspiration trickling from his temple. Gross. 

_BANG!_ Jimbo crumples to the floor, blood oozing from a neat bullet hole between his bushy brows. 

Three bullets. 

He cocks the gun once more, aims it at the lankier one.

“Eenie.” 

Turns it on the fat one. “Meenie.”

String bean. “Miney.”

Back to Fatso. “Mo.” He keeps it there. He likes the way Fatso squirms with the barrel pointed his way. “What about Harley, hm? And be quick about it. My patience is wearing thin.”

“She’s g-going to Old Gotham, Sir.”

“ _What_ ?!” Jay roars, takes a step closer and keeps the gun pointed at the crease in Fatso’s brow. “ _Why_ ?!”

The other one—String Bean—chimes in this time. “It’s s-sort of… on fire?”

Jay turns the gun on him. “Was that a question, String Bean? Or a statement?”

String Bean audibly gulps. “A statement, M-Mister Joker Sir.”

Jay lowers the gun, feels hysteria crawl up into his throat until it’s all he can do not to cackle aloud. “FUCK!” he screams to no one in particular. 

_BANG! BANG!_ Two bodies drop—one right after the other. The second thud is notably louder than the first.

One bullet left. And he knows just who to save it for. 

Time to go chase down a runaway whore.

🃏 🃏 🃏 🃏 🃏

**ONYX**

She has spirit, Floyd’s Harley. (That, and a good amount of choice body art, too.)

Dip-dyed platinum-blonde pigtails, a too-large police uniform shirt left unbuttoned and slipping off her pale shoulders, a determined gleam in her eye. 

Black heart on her cheek; the word ‘ROTTEN’ along her jawline; ‘Daddy’s Lil Monster’ in large, looping script beneath her left collarbone. 

Charming. 

The fact that she’s currently got a Glock leveled at Onyx’s head is significantly less so, but she’ll take what she can get. 

Honestly, Onyx is rather impressed that Harley’s still standing. The girl looks like she got into a no-holds-barred wrestle with Hulk Hogan and miraculously lived to tell the tale—then, on her way back home, proceeded to get curb-stomped by an angry mob. 

Whatever. She’s alive; that’s what matters. 

“That’s far enough,” she says, successfully stopping Onyx in her tracks. There’s a desperate, almost _feral_ gleam in her eye… not unlike that of a cornered animal. “Who the _hell_ are you?” 

“Onyx Adams,” Onyx answers honestly. “And you’re Harley Quinn.”

Harley eyes her warily up and down for a moment. “Look, lady, I really don’t have time for this. Did I sleep with ya or somethin’?” 

Onyx has to bite back a chuckle. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Oh.” Harley frowns, seeming stumped. “Then whaddaya want?”

“We have a mutual friend—Floyd Lawton.”

A crease forms between her brows, suspicion flaring in her narrowed gaze. “Floyd never mentioned ya.”

Onyx doesn’t bother feigning offense. They’re out of time for pleasantries. “We’re old friends,” she explains levelly. “He has me follow you sometimes, make sure you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah?” Harley asks, sounding very much like she wants to call ‘ _Bullshit_.’ Onyx can’t blame her. “Prove it.”

“You dress like a bougie therapist for our beloved district attorney. Tetch always pumps you full of drugs, dresses you up all nice and pretty like a doll because he’s a fuckin’ limp-dicked pervert.”

Harley huffs out an incredulous laugh at that even as the haunted look in her eye betrays her unease. 

“Almost killed him for that alone, never mind how Joker treats you, like you’re his slave or something…” Onyx shakes her head in disgust, remembering the pure anger that bloomed inside her chest that day—hot and molten. “Floyd said I couldn’t, ‘cause Joker had your kid. I don’t much like kids myself, but they’re innocents. Your kid is innocent. He doesn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire of Joker’s one-man pissing contest.”

Harley lowers the gun, an awed look on her face. “His name is Eli,” she says quietly after a moment. 

At that, Onyx has to bite back a sigh. Even after all she’s been through, this girl still trusts too damn easy. “That’s a wonderful name,” she says instead. “I think Floyd found him. He gave me an address in Old Gotham, told me to take you there. Will you let me?”

Harley eyes her carefully for a long minute. Then, she breaks into a tentative grin. “Sure!” She shoves the gun in the waistband of her shorts, prances around the door of the police cruiser, slams it shut behind her without flourish. “Can I drive?”

Onyx snorts, tosses her the helmet. “In your dreams, Blondie.” 

⼑ ⼑ ⼑

**FLOYD**

By the time they find the poor kid sobbing in apartment 3B, they’ve downed five bodies, many of whom Floyd knew personally. 

Floyd does the honors of kicking in the door, even if Selina seems less than pleased with his initiative. Whatever. She can be pissed about it all she wants. 

Floyd’s noticed at least three shallow gashes running down her back, not to mention some serious deep-tissue bruising around her pelvis. In all likelihood, she’s boasting one or two cracked ribs, too, judging by the slight wheeze that tapers off every breath and the almost gingerly way she’s moving about. 

If he can save her any further injury, he’ll do it. 

The moment they lay eyes upon a sniffling Eli flanked by two idiots in matching green pantsuits and Joker makeup, all bets are off. Floyd’s got Idiot #1’s head in the sights of his SIG MPX, Selina’s leveling her Glock at Idiot #2. The only thing that’s keeping him from painting the walls with brain matter is the terrified look on Eli’s tear-streaked face. 

It’s a stand-off. Should they shoot and traumatize the kid for life, or play this out?

Fortunately, Tweedledee and Tweedle-dumber make the decision for them. 

They exchange wide-eyed glances with one another over Eli’s pretty blonde head, look back down the barrel of each gun trained upon them, and seem to make a split-second decision on the spot. 

Before Floyd can down them, too, they’re tossing their SMGs aside and scurrying forth, squeezing past Selina and Floyd in the tiny doorway, all the while mumbling something to themselves about “not getting paid enough for this.”

Floyd doesn’t relax his vigilance until he hears their footfalls echoing from the stairwell. 

Huh. That was… unexpectedly nice. 

Hot smoke fills Floyd’s lungs, making every breath he takes hurt like a bitch. 

It’s a miracle the kid hasn’t passed out from smoke inhalation yet. 

When he turns to Selina, she’s already looking right back at him with that same determination splayed across her pretty, soot-streaked features. 

All at once, they’re on the same page. 

They need to get the kid out of here, fast. 

⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖ ⌖

**IVY**

It’s a bumpy ride, getting down—and even that is likely understating it. 

They’re in a cradle of thickening vines—Tatsu, Frank, then Ivy, in that order. It’s almost canoe-shaped, Ivy notes dazedly. 

Bullets pepper the air all around, and the plants… the _plants_. So many of them are dying—whether by bullets, fire, or explosives they fall. Ivy feels every single one like a sucker punch to the gut—crushing physical blows that squeeze all the breath from her lungs.

Frank’s obnoxious, loud-mouthed commentary isn’t exactly helping, either. 

“Fuck— _Shit_ —Jesus, Ivy, can’t you get us outta here a little faster?”

“Shut up, Frank,” Ivy growls—not that it does any good. 

“Oh, _I’m_ sorry, Carrot Top,” Frank spews back immediately, righteous indignation coloring his shrill tone. Their cradle shudders violently as a fresh round of bullets sprays the air, shattering what precious little remains of Ivy’s dwindling focus. “Excuse me for not being happy-go- _fucking_ -lucky about the fact that we’re all currently plummeting to our deaths!”

Tatsu turns back, shoots the potted plant a hard glare before settling on Ivy. Her short, shoulder-length black hair whips this way and that in the harsh winds. “Can you shut him up?”

“Lady, I will _eat_ you!”

Ivy ignores them. They’re fifteen floors up, still—sailing down from the cityscape through open air in a canoe-shaped amalgamation of vines as hails of bullets and fiery explosions decimate everything in their wake. She’s got better things to focus on. 

Namely—getting them down without dying. (And Harley. Where the _fuck_ is Harley?)

🜃 🜃 🜃

**TATSU**

Tatsu somersaults out the cradle of vines just moments before they touch solid ground, lands in a bent-legged crouch on a cracked slab of sidewalk pavement. The top two floors of the lavish high-rise that Pamela once called home are last week’s news—engulfed in flames, shuddering with a seemingly never-ending procession of explosives from the interior. 

She ignores the gargantuan Venus flytrap plant exclaiming, “Gah-damn!” before turning to Pamela to say, “Did you see that, Ives? This lady’s a whole somersaulting gymnastics buff.” And then, “Hey, lady!” (This part is directed at yours truly.) “Where you think you’re goin’?”

Tatsu ignores him. 

She’s sprinting over to the building’s awning-covered entrance, sword in tow. After all, it stands to reason that since Joker’s men chose to bomb the front doorstep rather than taking a more covert approach, they’ll be coming down and out through the front doors as well. 

It’s lacking in creativity, to be sure (foolish, even), but it’s convenient enough for Tatsu’s purposes, and that’s what matters. 

She jogs up to one of eight Romanesque columns flanking the red-carpeted entryway, conceals herself behind its stone figure as she takes stock of her surroundings.

Rubber-necking civilians piling up on all the nearby sidewalks? Check. 

Sirens in the distance? Check. 

Pamela and her sailor-mouthed plant friend ducking for cover somewhere across the street? … Well, shit. 

The row boat-shaped vine transport sits quiescent on the sidewalk where they’d first touched down, empty and lifeless.

Pamela and Frank… Damn it. 

Where did they go?

Footsteps at her back—gentle, erratic, untrained. On their heels, a strange, almost _slithering_ gait.

She whirls around just in time to see—

“Mother of God, you are _fast_ ,” the Venus flytrap exclaims boisterously from behind a frustrated-looking Pamela as the pair come up to greet her. He’s grown… legs, in only the loosest sense of the word. Twin vines support him on either side like a pair of snake-like feet, holding him aloft. Interesting. She hadn’t known he could walk on his own. “Where did you say you were from again?”

It’s a testament to her considerable self-discipline that Tatsu does not facepalm right there and there. Instead, she turns to Pamela, who’s sidled up to join her shoulder-to-shoulder behind the smooth column. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she questions flatly, allowing the faintest hint of malice to seep into her lowered tone. 

Pamela shrugs, hazards a peek around the column. Presumably seeing nothing that would warrant any immediate concern, she turns back to shoot Tatsu a bemused look. “Call me sentimental.”

Tatsu doesn’t roll her eyes at that, but it’s a close thing. Instead, she inhales deeply to center herself—once… twice. 

She turns, steals another glimpse around the column. Nothing. 

She estimates another sixty seconds, maybe less, before Joker’s men reach the ground floor and start shooting. 

Tatsu tightens her grip around the hilt of her katana, feels the whispering words of souls long dead enveloping her body in a haze of war and bloodshed. 

The telltale roar of a turbine engine from overhead shatters her meditative abstraction… Her eyes snap open as the rhythmic beat of helicopter blades slicing elevated air at breakneck speed fills her ears.

The Venus flytrap cranes to escape the shade of the entryway’s awning, glaring up into gloomy skies overhead with his flowered red eyes. “Now, who the fuck—?”

“What do you see, Frank?” Pamela questions, her hardened tone imbued with the faintest tinge of mounting apprehension. 

The Venus flytrap— _Frank_ —squints, straining. “Black, nondescript…” he reports. “It ain’t the cops; that’s for damn sure!”

A sinking feeling in Tatsu’s gut. 

Well. It looks as though the cavalry’s come a bit sooner than expected.

Not only that, first-responders are closing in. The wail of emergency sirens—police, firefighters, EMTs—no longer so distant; now just a hair short of deafening. Maybe two blocks down, if Tatsu had to guess. 

She clenches her jaw, takes a moment to feel around for the syringe in her pocket—still there.

Time to improvise. 

〇 〇 〇

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing joker's pov was unexpectedly cathartic in a peculiar, fucked-up, exceedingly backwards kind of way. i should go back to therapy
> 
> also i fucking love the concept that frank actually can walk on his own with very little trouble; he just prefers to make other people carry him becuase he's a diva


	19. bombs away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her periphery, Harley sees Floyd and Selina and Onyx snap to attention wearing matching glares, guns leveled at Joker’s chest and head. 
> 
> Joker’s maniacal grin doesn’t falter.
> 
> “Harley Quinn!” he roars with melodramatic vigor, one arm spread even as the other secures the RPG over his shoulder. Still, it doesn’t appear as though he’s posed to loose another missile, so Floyd and Selina and Onyx hold their fire. For now. “There’s my runaway harlot!”
> 
> Harley suppresses a flinch, cradles Eli’s head a little closer to her chest and turns to shoot her tormentor a hard glare. She hopes it comes off as more intimidating than it feels. “Whaddaya _want_ , Mistah J?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this in a caffeine and amphetamine-fueled FRENZY so if there are mistakes, please let me know so i can fix them
> 
> and i'm gonna post the next bit right after i post this one so that's exciting ! reaching a finale of sorts here... yay?

**TATSU**

They don’t have to wait much longer until Joker’s men crash the lobby spraying bullets—maybe twenty seconds or so. Just as Tatsu estimated.

She slips a flashbang grenade from her hip, waits for a few of them to burst through the entrance doors, and chucks it side-armed past the three morons leading the pack. It sails between Idiot #1 and #2’s hips, clattering onto the marble floors of the grand lobby with a series of metallic _clang_ s before— 

_BANG!_

A cloud of pale fog erupts amidst a horde of armed goons, making them stumble and drop their guns, screaming profanity and clutching desperately at their ears as white noise overwhelms their senses. 

The discordant shriek from the grenade reaches Tatsu even where she stands, causing her to flinch, but she’s quick to push it aside in favor of calculating her best moment to strike. 

The moment the foremost trio register the shrieks of their comrades, then turn to assess the situation, Tatsu is on the move. 

Sprinting over, dropping into a roll around Idiot #3. In a flash, she’s up in a crouch and slashing his hamstring through a baggy pair of camo pants, causing him to crumple with a quiet groan.

Idiot #2 and #1 take notice of her then, eyes widening almost comically through the slits of their Joker masks. She counts a full _one-Mississippi_ second before recognition seems to dawn on them, and they’re scrambling to bring their guns around to shoot her. 

She almost snorts. _Amateurs_. 

Idiot #2 loses his hand before he can even get to a decent hip-firing position, and Idiot #1—

She’s about to slice him in the jugular, feel his soul enter her bloodied blade, but Frank gets there first. 

In one massive movement, he’s consumed Idiot #1 whole—literally. Gun, helmet, and all. Tatsu watches in abject horror, at a complete loss for words as the man’s panicked squawk is swallowed up by Frank’s massive lips closing down on his victim. 

Frank chews once, twice, and Tatsu can hear the sickening squelch of teeth tearing flesh. Then, he audibly gulps—once, twice, three times. There’s a deafening grumble like rocks in the garbage disposal as the considerable mass in Frank’s maw slides down his throat to go down, down, headed towards… well, Tatsu’s not sure exactly where. 

It’s not like Frank has a stomach anywhere to be seen. 

With that done, Frank shivers in visible delight, then lets out a contented sigh. “Tasty.”

Pamela sidles up to join Tatsu where she stands, affording the plant a sharp nod. “Nice one, Frank.”

_What the f—?_

Tatsu’s spared from dwelling on _that_ little tidbit any further as a couple stragglers (these ones largely unaffected by the flashbang) stumble out, guns at the ready. 

She settles down into a fighting stance, mentally tracking her best course of attack. Green vines curl around the doors, wrangling disoriented men from the inside and throwing them back out onto the street. 

Frank slithers forward, fangs bared in delight. 

Tatsu almost smiles. Almost. 

_Just another day in the life_.

〇 〇 〇

**HARLEY**

Onyx takes a hard screeching right onto a small, derelict street… Bleaker, if the drooping sign at the street corner is anything to go by. 

Black smoke fills the air. Harley’s eyes water even from under the helmet as the fumes enter her lungs, making her chest burn until it aches to breathe. 

She holds Onyx’s waist a little tighter as they zip down the street, roaring flames engulf run-down buildings on either side. 

And there, a couple buildings down, stumbling out onto the cracked sidewalk from a burning apartment building… is that Selina? And Floyd, too?

And _Eli_ ?

Tears stream down either of Harley’s cheeks at the sight of his little golden-blonde head of hair tucked securely into Selina’s neck; her lungs ache with the effort of heaving in a fresh breath of air that’ll make this feel real.

She barely registers Onyx sliding to a screeching halt at the curb, because she’s already vaulting herself up off the motorcycle, ripping off the helmet and letting it fall to the tarmac with a dull _thunk!_

She thinks Floyd says something, then, or maybe Selina does, but right now, she really can’t find it in herself to care. 

She bounds up onto the sidewalk in a flash, fucking books it straight for her little boy, who’s all dazed and sleepy in Selina’s arms. 

_God, he’s so fuckin’ adorable_.

Selina hands him over without a fuss, and when Eli’s droopy blue eyes widen at the sight of her and he opens his lanky little arms to hug her tight and yells, “Mommy!” in a hoarse, cracked voice from all the smoke, Harley fears her heart might just beat right out of her chest with the unadulterated _love_ she feels for him in this moment. 

Harley’s arms are tight around his little torso—maybe a little _too_ tight—but she needs this right now. She _needs_ his pert, button nose nuzzling against the crook of her neck, the scent of him—smoke and stale cigarettes and something that’s entirely unique to Eli and Eli alone—invading her nostrils. 

So many nights spent apart from her little boy, her fucking _world_ —the best, most precious piece of her, no matter which way you slice it. 

“Mommy, you’re squeezing me too tight,” Eli complains petulantly in her ear, his tiny voice a little more strained than it was before. 

Harley manages a teary laugh that sounds more like a sob than anything else, but dutifully loosens her hold (just a little bit) all the same. “Sorry, baby,” she apologizes hoarsely, turning to bury her nose in his disheveled hair so she can breathe him in. “Mommy’s just really, _really_ happy to see you.”

Eli giggles, a pure sound of youthful delight that warms Harley down to the marrow of her bones. “‘M happy to see you too, Ma.” 

Then he pulls back a little to give her a quick once-over, and Harley (though she’s loath to let him part from her for even a moment) lets him—albeit with a not-insignificant amount of hesitance. 

As he takes in her battered appearance, a small crease forms between his blonde eyebrows and his little pink lips push out to form an adorable pout. “Mommy, you’re hurt!” he exclaims, concern filling his wide blue-eyed gaze. 

Harley chuckles, pulls him in for another hug. The warmth of his squirming body against her own is intoxicating, and God, she never wants to let him go. “It’s alright, baby. I promise,” she soothes, determined truth underscoring every word. She can’t even feel the bruises or the cuts or the pain anymore. All she knows is _Eli_ : his squeaky voice; his impossibly soft hair tickling her cheek; his clean, little kid smell filling her nostrils. “Mommy’s alright.”

Over his shoulder, she finally spares a glance to Selina then Floyd and back again, mouthing a teary-eyed _‘Thank you.’_

Selina smiles, wiping a tear from her soot-streaked cheek. Floyd just gives a curt nod, but there’s a sheen of moisture in his brown, almond-shaped eyes that betrays his nostalgia. 

She makes a mental note to tease him about it later. 

Then she turns to Onyx, who’s leaned up against her motorcycle with crossed arms and a gentle smirk. She mouths a _‘Thank you’_ over to her, too, but she’s quick to dismiss it with a wave of her gloved hand.

It’s kind of a perfect moment, there—for a minute or two, at least. 

The district still burns around them, blackened smoke fills Harley’s lungs, and she knows that they can’t linger here… But oh, how she wishes they could. 

It’s far from perfect; the edges of it burnt into an ugly black with heartache and grief beyond her years… and yet, in spite of all that grief—or, perhaps _because_ of it—the burgeoning happiness in her chest seems to grow all the greater. 

Well, she should know by now that shit like this—warm, fuzzy, well and truly _happy_ shit—never lasts. 

She barely sees the recognition and alarm settle into Floyd’s eyes as he fixes his gaze on something (or some _one_ ) in the near distance. There’s an ear-splitting squeal of tires on asphalt from the other end of the street—all the warning she gets before shit hits the fan. 

Harley barely has time to get down and collapse shoulder-first onto the pavement, shielding Eli with her body as a projectile whistles through the smoke-blackened air overhead and—

_**FWOOM!**_

It (whatever _it_ is) explodes the flame-engulfed apartment building at their backs in a deafening explosion, sending chunks of debris flying. 

A concussive wave of heat follows quickly on the heels of the blast, searing likely second-degree burns into the nape of Harley’s neck and the backs of her thighs. The force of it pushing down on her is more than enough to have her grinding her teeth something awful to keep herself from collapsing and squishing Eli, scraping the scabbed-over skin of her own knees and elbows off against the pavement as it ripples over her. 

She thinks she hears Eli scream and burst into tears cradled against her chest, but she can’t be sure. Her ears are ringing with white noise; the world is sideways; her knees and elbows sting like a _bitch_ , and she’s probably bleeding onto the pavement like nobody’s business.

Another projectile whizzing overhead— _ **FWOOM!**_ —deafens her all over again, sends out another concussive blast that seems to sear her skin right down to the fuckin’ bone. She looks up just in time to see the apartment building shudder, its top two floors (already blackened with significant fire damage) beginning to collapse in on itself.

She scrambles to her feet with a groan, backpedals unsteadily from the shuddering apartment building with a sobbing Eli clutched to her chest. If it takes another blast, it’s going down for _sure_.

Floyd and Selina are stumbling to their feet, clutching their ears and aiming their guns in two different directions… not that they’ll likely catch sight of their attacker through all this brown-ish dust and black smoke that surrounds them in a dense, eye-watering cloud. 

Onyx is out cold, slumped down in an awkward position against her parked motorcycle near the curb. No visible wounds, but that won’t last unless she gets her ass up and hightails it outta here, _now_. 

After a moment’s deliberation, Harley bites back a curse and knees down in front of her, shaking her by the shoulder in an attempt to rouse her. 

“Onyx?” Her voice is hoarse, gravelly… It hurts like a bitch just to whisper, but she forces herself to push through it. “Onyx!” she says, louder this time, then chokes and lurches to the side, hacks up a glob of her own blood mixed with saliva onto the pavement. 

Eli’s bordering on hysterical now, wetting the base of her neck with his tears, and God, but she hates herself for putting him in this situation.

In the distance, there’s the roar of an engine from high up overhead… the _chop-chop-chop_ of helicopter blades. It sounds as if it’s closing in on Old Gotham… though for what reason, Harley can’t for the life of her tell. The whole district will be black and burnt by nightfall. 

Regardless, she can’t think on it for very long.

A brainsick cackle reverberates down the street, growing ever nearer with the squeal of rubber on asphalt. Harley’s blood runs cold. 

Is she just imagining that? 

She has to be. Right?

She takes a deep breath to steel herself (even if it stings her smoke-filled lungs something awful), then winds up and slaps Onyx across the face.

_SMACK!_

Onyx comes alive with a full-bodied flinch, gloved fists snapping up to a defensive position, a throwing knife— _Where the fuck did she pull that from?_ —clenched tightly in one hand. 

Her dark gaze is glossy, unfocused, but Harley gives her umber-brown cheek a couple lighter slaps until it fixes on her. “C’mon, lady, c’mon back,” she pleads. “You gotta get up, _please_.”

“Harley?” Onyx croaks, dark eyes already scanning their surroundings, brow furrowed in pain and confusion. There’s a patch of angry red forming above her collarbone that Harley will bet is likely a developing burn from the heat of the blast. “What—?”

“No time to explain, Baldy,” Harley snaps, employing the insensitive nickname in an effort to piss her off enough that she’ll jolt into action. The affronted look that flits across her face is evidence that it’s working. “Get up, _now_.”

A large vehicle comes shrieking through the dust, then, squealing to a cacophonous halt just a hundred feet from where Harley’s stuck coaching Onyx back to the land of the living. 

She thinks she stands and offers a hand down to her fallen compatriot; feels Onyx take the proffered hand and leverage Harley’s balance to pull herself up to her feet. She barely registers it. 

The car…

It’s black, the paint job dented and scratched in various places; an SUV with a large metal grille guard (streaked with blood, like it recently ran over a pedestrian) to match. It’s got huge wheels and obnoxious LED headlights that strain Harley’s eyes when she chances a look, but that’s not the disturbing part. 

No, that comes in the form of a familiar green-haired clown wearing a bright-red Cheshire cat grin that leaks blood down his pale chin. He’s visible from the waist up where he’s stuck himself up through the sunroof, a whole R-P- _fucking_ -G balanced on his suit-clad shoulder.

So, _that’s_ what caused the ear-splitting explosions.

In her periphery, Harley sees Floyd and Selina and Onyx snap to attention wearing matching glares, guns leveled at Joker’s chest and head. Joker’s maniacal grin doesn’t falter.

“Harley Quinn!” he roars with melodramatic vigor, one arm spread even as the other secures the RPG over his shoulder. Still, it doesn’t appear as though he’s posed to loose another missile, so Floyd and Selina and Onyx hold their fire. For now. “There’s my runaway harlot!”

Harley suppresses a flinch, cradles Eli’s head a little closer to her chest and turns to shoot her tormentor a hard glare. She hopes it comes off as more intimidating than it feels. “Whaddaya _want_ , Mistah J?”

“Awww, that’s no way to treat your _Puddin’_ , Harley girl,” Joker laments obnoxiously, sprawling a ghost-pale hand across his lapel with an exaggerated frown—feigning offense. “I’m willing to forgive all this…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand and scrunching his nose in distaste, “childish silliness of yours if you come quietly.”

At that, he throws his head back, chest heaving as a screaming cackle escapes him. “‘Come quietly,’” he repeats—almost _mocking_ himself, his words strained with crazed laughter. “When have you ever done that?”

Harley fights the urge to roll her eyes. She’s not at all sure what compels her to say it, but a second later, the words are escaping her before she can think to stop them: “Not like you would know.”

It’s sullen—childish, even. A low blow, and not a particularly good comeback as comebacks go, but Harley’s proud of it all the same. 

She never dared to speak out of turn, much less retort with something snappy. But now, with Eli in her arms, his wonderful kid-ish scent in her nose, his tears warm and wet against her neck… 

She doesn’t care anymore. Sure, old habits die hard. Even now, talking back feels like tearing flayed skin from her bleeding flesh, but her shackles are gone, and she’s inclined to believe that that’s all that truly matters—no matter how bad it hurts. 

Joker’s face twists into a snarl, but it’s come and gone in a split-second—replaced by a mask of pleasant surprise as another brainsick laugh bubbles up in his throat. 

Control. He has to appear in control. That’s all that’s ever mattered with him. Textbook narcissism and histrionic personality disorder. Harley could write a whole ‘nother thesis on his twisted psychology at this point. 

Idly, Harley notes the roar of an engine, the _chk-chk-chk_ of helicopter blades closing in from the heavens. It sounds as though it’s headed straight for them. 

Harley prays that isn’t the case. She’s got enough on her plate as it is. 

“Oh-ho!” Joker exclaims, his high-pitched tone choked with artificial glee. Another crowing chortle. “ _Someone’s_ feeling bold.”

“It’s over, Joker,” Floyd interjects, then, stepping in front of Harley to shield her (and Eli) from Joker’s aim. The barrel of his gun is steady despite his injuries, trained at Joker’s forehead—a perfect hit. They don’t call him _‘Deadshot’_ for nothin’. “We got the kid, and Harley ain’t goin’ back to your sorry ass. _Ever_.”

As he speaks, Onyx and Selina are quick to join up—flanking Floyd’s tall bulky figure on either side, guns at the ready. 

Joker heaves a hyperbolic sigh, rolling his eyes. “See, this is what I get for trying to be nice!” he turns to exclaim to no one in particular, agitation rising in his tone. “Well.” He steadies the RPG, takes aim down the iron sights. “You leave me no choice, _Puddin’_.”

The nickname hits like a physical blow, but Harley does not flinch away. She knows Onyx, Floyd, and Selina’s fingers are teasing their triggers… and when they pump him full of lead, she wants to see it. 

“Don’t do it, man,” Floyd warns even as his shoulders tense and he cranes his neck to better line up the shot. It was probably already dead-on to begin with, but he’s a perfectionist like that. “You’re outnumbered. You can’t win here.”

Joker pauses, throws back his head and screeches like that’s the funniest joke he’s heard in some time. “You stole something of mine, Floyd-y,” he reasons, letting his cold gaze land on Harley. It seems to bore straight through her, but she does not look away. She _won’t_. “If I can’t have her…” He takes aim, squinting with one eye down the sights. “No one can.”

Things seem to happen in slow motion, then. 

Floyd’s shoulders tense, Onyx cracks her neck, and then… 

And then. 

Something falls from the sky with a shrill, high-pitched whistle, headed straight for the asphalt. Thin, cylindrical, pointy grey metal; its back end fitted with little black blades… 

_Is that a missile_ —?

_**FWOOOOM!** _

Harley barely has time to turn and shield Eli from the blow, then bend her arms and knees in time to catch her on the pavement ( _again_ ) as the concussive blast wave hurls her face-first down. The impact tears all the skin—whatever’s left of it, anyhow—from her knees and elbows; a wave of heat seems to burn her flesh from the outside in. 

Offhandedly, she takes a moment to wonder if this is how it feels to die by fire. 

Eli wails, the ground shudders, and everything fades to black. 

— —

**TATSU**

It takes some time (maybe five, ten minutes or so), but eventually, they’ve cleared all of Joker’s men. Blood stains the columns and the glass of the double-door entrance; crumpled bodies litter the asphalt at their backs; Frank’s sucking on a bloodied, radial bone that still has bits of flesh attached to it like it’s a lollipop.

But, dare she say it; they’ve done… well. 

A quick glance over to Old Gotham shows smoke, fire, and a black helicopter hovering in the darkening skies. As Tatsu watches, it looses a missile straight down that shudders the entire district.

_Time’s up_.

She stalks up behind Isley, who’s tugging at the bulletproof vest of a dead goon… brandishes a sleek, black device a moment later—a phone. 

Too bad she won’t have time to examine it any further. 

In a second, Tatsu’s got the syringe in one hand and she’s on top of her, jamming it into the pale-green flesh of her neck and pressing until it’s all gone. 

Isley barely has time to tense up and let out a hissed curse before she’s crumpling to her knees, collapsing face-first over the corpse of the masked goon. 

The movement must have snapped Frank from his post-meal haze, because a second later, and, “Hey, lady! What the fuck did you just do?!”

Tatsu rolls her eyes, pulls a miniaturized tranq-dart pistol from her bra. (Her back-up in case the syringe didn’t work with Isley’s enhanced genetic make-up.)

She shoots him in his giant, bulbous, frog-like chin—once, twice, three times. 

He doesn’t get in another word before he’s out cold, folding on the spot like a house of cards. His stem curves obscenely, his disproportionately large head sinking to the red-carpeted floor with a gentle _thud!_

Then, she snatches the phone Isley had been examining from her loosened grasp, punches in a number she (regrettably) has come to know by heart. 

Two rings… then three. Tatsu eyes her unconscious charges warily as she waits. 

Another ring. 

_Click!_ Someone picks up. 

“Yes?” comes a familiar voice on the other end. 

“It’s Tatsu,” she says flatly. “I need an extraction.”

“Address?”

She squints over at the golden plaque beside the double-door entrance, then glances back at the street corners. She rattles it off. 

“Understood. Stay right where you are.”

Tatsu clenches her jaw, resentment prickling beneath her skin. Nevertheless, her voice is carefully devoid of emotion when she answers, “Yes, Ma’am.”

〇 〇 〇

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> player 3 has entered the game, yea?


	20. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours later, in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh so we're here! final chapter
> 
> fucking wild, dude
> 
> to all the people who stuck this out with me, your comments and support have meant a hell of a lot more to me than you know. please don't kill me for this ending<3

**AMANDA**

Amanda Waller steps off the jet and out onto a private airfield in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana. The skies are pitch-black overhead; night has long since fallen. 

Still, the lampposts shed bright white light on the airfield, illuminating everything from the blackened tire marks on the asphalt to the thick greenery crowding the borders on every side.

In the near distance, the blocky silhouette of Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary looms—guard towers lit at every post, cameras trained on every inch of the somber facility, the communal prison yard desolate save for the occasional two-man patrol… all this behind miles of electrical fence topped with gleaming spools of barbed wire. 

Her heels click on the tarmac and the rhythmic thud of the Colonel’s bootsteps are perfectly in time with her own—a steady metronome for the melody of pure elation eclipsing her thoughts. 

Years of planning; endless meetings spent kissing the asses of egotistic geriatric white men who hold positions of considerable power they’ve done absolutely nothing to earn… all that blood, sweat, and tears, finally culminating to bear fruit.

Lord, she feels giddy just thinking about it.

_Focus_ , she scolds herself. _You’re not there yet_. 

A couple hundred feet down from the jet, a helicopter has touched down neatly in a painted-white circle atop the tarmac. Recently, too, by the looks of it. 

The pilot dismounts, pries open the back doors to reveal… 

It’s only years of hard-earned discipline that keeps Amanda Waller from clapping her hands together and squealing with delight like a little white kid on Christmas morning. 

Three stretchers come rolling out, one right after another. 

_It must’ve been a tight fit in the chopper_ , Amanda thinks to herself. 

On the first—a tall, black man with broad shoulders and a featherweight boxer’s build. A considerable beard lines his jaw, soot streaks his swarthy features, and his typically heavy-browed expression is lax—peaceful in his drug-induced sleep. 

On the next—a thin, shapely woman with wild curls of brown hair; pouty lips; and a black latex catsuit clinging to every curve like a second skin. Her features, too (pretty as they may be), are grimy and soiled; striped with blackened ash. Selina Kyle. Something of a last-minute decision on Amanda’s part, but upon seeing her now, she certainly doesn’t regret it. She, too, is out cold even despite the intensity of the LEDs overhead, thanks to the IV filled with sedatives attached to her gurney. 

And, last but not least—two figures are curled up around each other on the last bed: a willowy ghost-pale young woman with girlish platinum-blonde pigtails (the edges dip-dyed blue and pink, respectively), full lips that bleed from a split in the lower of the two, and angry-looking bruises littering nearly every inch of exposed flesh all across her lithe body. 

Snuggled up into her side, snoring peacefully into her neck—a young, exhausted-looking little blonde boy with a bit of soot smeared across his plump cheek, thin eyelids swollen and pink from crying. He whimpers in his sleep, then; and, as if Harley senses it—even knocked unconscious as she is—her thin, blood-streaked arm tightens around the boy and tucks him closer. 

Harley Quinn, and her… nephew? Adoptive ward? _Son_ ?

Now, wouldn’t that be something. 

Psychiatrist-turned-maniacal-delinquent, a mother. 

She makes a mental note to order a full DNA work-up, stat. Perhaps the child truly is his mother’s son. 

She and the Colonel pause to let them by, returning each armed escort’s nod with a curt one of her own. 

She turns to the Colonel. “ETA on Tatsu and Isley?”

The Colonel doesn’t blink. “Already here, Ma’am,” he drawls in that nasally, accented tone of his. It grates on Amanda’s nerves. “They’re waitin’ for us inside.”

She nods. “Good.”

Then, without a word, they fall into line, making their way directly into the jaws of a place Harley Quinn and her band of misfits will never, ever escape from. 

🅇 🅇 🅇 🅇 🅇

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay... i don't know how soon i'm gonna be able to start working on another installment, but i am planning to work on it sometime in the near future
> 
> that said, my college semester starts in a couple days, so i really can't promise i'll be really getting into it until as late as summertime, even
> 
> thanks for being patient with me, kids; it means the fucking world <3

**Author's Note:**

> (here's a link to my [tumblr](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/) i just made for fic / fandom / writing stuff if you wanna come talk to me there!)


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